


You'll Never Get to Heaven (if you're scared of getting high)

by KannaOphelia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And more by aggressively drinking tea than anything, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is not as oblivious as he might at first seem, Aziraphale's idea of a South Downs "Cottage" has five bedrooms and three bathrooms, Aziraphale/Crowley Wedding (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Book Elements, Crowley Cries During Sex (Good Omens), Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley's managers are sadistic bastards, Crowley.exe stopped working, Endearments, Eventually they will actually make it to the party, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Gay Disaster Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Hedonism, Humour, I'm not even apologising for plot twists at this point, Icebreaking party games are clearly a form of torture designed by demons, Ineffable actual husbands by the end, Just all the sap okay, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, No sex until chapter 24, Only One Bed, Romance, Sappy Ending, Seven Deadly Sins, Shamelessly Sappy, Shamelessly tropey, Show Elements, Slow Burn, So much kissing, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Surprise Pairing, Threesome but only if you define threesome as "two people watch Aziraphale eating cake", To be fair he's been keyed up a fair few centuries, and 25, at least eventually, sappy smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2020-09-23 09:21:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 77,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20337796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: “I need you,” said Aziraphale, which was far more straightforward than Crowley had been expecting, even after two bottles of wine. The angel stared at his plate, turning as red as the little gems of pomegranate seed on it.“Well,” Crowley said, at last, trying to keep any giveaway hoarseness out of his voice. “Here I am."“It’s just that—oh, dear, some things are so difficult to say over the telephone apparatus, aren’t they? Especially if you have your voice messages on. It feels so impersonal, and I really couldn’t wait any longer to ask."“Good strategy. I’m right here, go ahead,” Crowley said encouragingly, wondering if he should reach for the angel’s hand. Unfortunately,  the angel’s closest hand was gripping cutlery as if it was a lifebuoy.  Crowley considered putting his hand on one invitingly touchable thigh instead.“Will you come to a party with me?"****Crowley and Aziraphale pose as husbands for a house party, because Aziraphale is bad at saying no (to anyone but Crowley and anyone trying to buy books).Crowley thinks this is a good chance to prove himself the perfect potential demon husband to a fussy angel. But things get complicated fast. Really complicated.





	1. Because it's only make believe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [romana03](https://archiveofourown.org/users/romana03/gifts).

> Bingo prompt fill for this chapter: Autumn. Which obviously means an autumnal seasonal menu for Aziraphale.

####  November

“So, what brings you up to London?” Crowley asked at last, when they had reached the fifth course of the tasting menu, were well into their second bottle of wine, and were reaching a shared rosy glow of contentment.

They were dining in a tiny restaurant hidden behind a shop in Soho. The kind of tiny restaurant that Crowley was pretty sure was booked up months in advance. He was also pretty sure Aziraphale had not bothered to book, as he had apparently only decided to take the train to London that day. They had seats next to each other at the single counter anyway. It was a very Aziraphale place, Crowley thought, with chefs that greeted him by name and an ever-changing menu. Nothing like that, he suspected, in the South Downs.

It was also full of people in expensive clothes barely tasting their beautifully prepared, half-foraged food because they were photographing it so they could casually let the world know they had seats there. Normally this kind of insult to the chef and food would have given Crowley any amount of pleasure, and all that bored self-indulgent wealth have given him lots of opportunities to do bad, but he had long ago decided that when he was with Aziraphale, he was off the clock.

Aziraphale, perched primly on his stool, fiddled with a very beautiful plate of what mostly looked like autumnal flowers and crystals of berry salt, but had some sliced duck hearts hidden among them. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I do feel rather bad eating duck. When we’ve spent so much time feeding them, too."

“Circle of life, angel.” Crowley speared a slice of duck heart from his own plate and popped it in Aziraphale’s mouth, avidly watching the surprised look, then the fluttered lashes and slight pink flush in the apples of his cheek. “There, that doesn’t actually feel bad at all, does it?” He could feel himself flush a little as well.

“I concede the point,” said Aziraphale, once he had swallowed. “That was succulent."

_Succulent._ There really were words that were sinfully inappropriate for that innocent mouth. Crowley felt he should encourage more.

“Glad we settled that. Now answer the question.” Crowley waited patiently for Aziraphale to admit he was bored witless in Suffolk, the food was no good, the weather was dismal, there were no decent drinking companions, he missed his book shop and he was going to give retirement up as a bad job and move back to just across the river from Crowley.

“I need you,” said Aziraphale, which was far more straightforward than Crowley had been expecting, even after two bottles of wine. The angel stared at his plate, turning as red as the little gems of pomegranate seed on it.

“Well,” Crowley said, at last, trying to keep any giveaway hoarseness out of his voice. “Here I am."

“It’s just that—oh, dear, some things are so difficult to say over the telephone apparatus, aren’t they? Especially if you have your voice messages on. It feels so impersonal, and I really couldn’t wait any longer to ask."

“Good strategy. I’m right here, go ahead,” Crowley said encouragingly, wondering if he should reach for the angel’s hand. Unfortunately, the angel’s closest hand was gripping cutlery as if it was a lifebouy. Crowley considered putting his hand on one invitingly touchable thigh instead.

“Will you come to a party with me?"

Crowley blinked, daydreams dissipating. “Angel, I don’t think we go to the same kind of parties."

“I’m afraid you’re right, my dear,” Aziraphale said miserably. “It’s a Christmas party. Goodwill to all is not really your area."

“I have no objection to Christmas parties,” Crowley said slowly. There had been a time when it was caught up with the memory of nails and crosses, but that had been a long time ago, and humans didn’t live very long anyway. “They’re quite useful. All that booze and resentment. Did you know I invented Secret Santas?"

“A family Christmas house party,” Aziraphale clarified.

“Well, I can do those, too,” Crowley said. “Do you know how much crime spikes over the holiday period?"

“No,” Aziraphale said firmly. “If you’re coming, I want you to promise to behave yourself."

“Well, if you don’t _want_ me to come, you should just say so,” said Crowley, although he wasn’t actually willing to let go of the idea.

“Please come,” Aziraphale said, with an edge of desperation that Crowley found highly interesting.

They were interrupted by a change of plates. Aziraphale had barely touched his duck hearts, which struck Crowley as interesting, as the angel’s conscience rarely lasted long when it came to food. Surely the honeyed figs would keep his attention longer. They had been one of his favourite foods for literally thousands of years. As Aziraphale poked vaguely at his plate without even tasting it, Crowley found himself quite concerned.

“So what is actually up? Spit it out, angel."

Aziraphale sighed. “It's awkward. I’m afraid I got myself into a bit of a mess."

“And you need a wicked demon to do the dirty work of extricating you? Well, that’s what I’m here for. Your personal evil hero. So tell me all, and eat your pudding.” He scooped some of his own fig onto a spoon, and offered it, feeling a stab of glee when Aziraphale docilely accepted it ono his mouth.

“Oh, that really is delicious,” Aziraphale said, cheering up. “I suppose the situation isn’t so bad, really. But I’m afraid I told a bit of an untruth."

“Do tell,” said Crowley, repressing a grin.

“Well, there’s this lady who runs an antique shop in the main village. Nell. Charming lady, and really, her collection is quite exquisite. And very interested in books. We fell into the habit of lunching together quite often.”

Crowley was aware of a stab of jealousy. Of course, it was ridiculous to think Aziraphale didn’t have any dining partners other than himself. He was too amiable, and far too fond of his comforts. Still. He’d barely been living out in the country for three months, he didn’t have to _rush_ to find a regular lunch partner, let alone a _charming_ one. What did Aziraphale care for charm? He wouldn’t spend so much time with _him_ if charm mattered.

“Hmph,” he said.

“Well, it seems, she got the impression that we were _dating_.” Aziraphale turned bright red. “That she and I were in a _relationship_,” he half whispered.

“You weren’t?"

“Don’t be ridiculous! There are rules about that kind of thing. I don’t want to end up chained under a mountain because I fathered a giant monster."

“Things have gone _that_ far?” Crowley could feel his eyebrows shoot up.

“No!” Aziraphale bit into some fig in an offended way. “I wasn’t aware they had gone anywhere at all, that’s the whole point. Until she tried to kiss me."

“I don’t suppose you told her politely that you were fond of her but just not attracted in that way,” sighed Crowley. “That would have been too easy."

“I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I’m rather afraid,” Aziraphale said, “that I told her I was sorry for the confusion, I was already married."

“I see,” said Crowley, who had a feeling he knew exactly where this was going. “So where is this spouse?"

“Working in game development in London and unable to come down because of crunch time.” For a moment Aziraphale looked proud of himself for knowing the terms, but then his face sank into troubled wrinkles again. He took a deep breath. “And, you see, I have a picture of us with the Bentley on the mantlepiece. Nell went straight over and picked it up and said she’d assumed you were my nephew, but now she could see the way you were leaning into me. And that we are a _darling_ couple, and surely you were coming down for Christmas, and why don’t we stay with her family? Always room for more."

“You have a picture of the Bentley on your mantlepiece?” Crowley asked, touched to the bottom of his black heart. “I knew you loved her deep down."

“That’s not the point."

“No, the point is that you told a really stupid lie and instead of admitting to it, you’re going to dig yourself in deeper,” Crowley said happily. It sounded like his kind of situation. “Well, I’m glad to lend you a spade."

“Oh _thank_ you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, eyes round with gratitude.

Crowley drained his glass. “Better practice calling me Anthony, sweetheart."

“You don’t need to be sarcastic about it.” Aziraphale pursed his lips, looking hurt.

“I’m not. You can’t go around calling me by my family name after marriage unless we were at Eton together or something, and I don’t think I can pull that off. Although I’m sure you could. Still, awkward if someone asked us which year and turned out to have gone there."

“We don’t have family names. But—s-sweetheart? Is it really necessary to call me sweet-h-heart?"

Crowley sighed. “We’re really going to have to work at this, aren’t we? No, it’s not. Angel will do just fine for a start. Humans usually use it as an endearment, after all,” he added disingenuously.

Aziraphale relaxed a little. “I’ve noticed. Charming, isn’t it? They must have some residual memory of angels watching over and guiding them."

“Smiting their firstborn, visiting plagues on them and turning them into pillars of salt."

“Is that really necessary, my dear?"

Crowley frowned. “On the subject of endearments..."

“Well, ‘my dear’ will do quite well, won’t it?” Aziraphale paused, struck by a sudden thought. “This is going to be easier than I expected. When I think about it, we do already act like a married couple from a human point of view."

Crowley stared at him for a bit, but Aziraphale seemed quite cheerful and unconscious of having said anything of any particular importance.

“I suppose we do,” Crowley said at last, as the figs were exchanged for what he suspected was raw egg foam dolloped on slices of melon and pear. Aziraphale, having seemingly unloaded his worries, sampled it with ecstatic relish.

“Oh, you really must try this. So delicate and rich."

“Not ‘my dear,’” Crowley decided suddenly, on the basis of how Aziraphale looked with a tiny fleck of egg foam on his lower lip.

“Why not?” Aziraphale blinked his lashes at him.

“You call _everyone_ ‘my dear’. You’ve called the chef ‘my dear’ three times already tonight. You called the snot-nosed child you tripped over on the way in ‘my dear’.You call _pigeons_ ‘my dear’ when you feed them. I think that, as your husband, I deserve something more special. After all, I only call _you_ ‘angel’. I require my own, unique endearment."

Aziraphale was so perplexed that he paused with his spoon on the way to his mouth. “Why? What would you like me to call you?"

Crowley gave him his most slow, careful smile, all exposed teeth and just a hint of tongue flashing briefly between them. “Oh, angel, I think I’ll leave that up to you. I can’t wait to hear what you come up with."

Aziraphale was spending the night at the bookshop and, Crowley assumed, spending it in deep passionate reconnection with his collection. On the walk back he took the angel's hand and tucked it into his arm before crossing the road, getting a slightly flustered sidelong look in return.

“Thank you, my dear. But I am capable of crossing the street by myself. I’ve been used to cars on the road for nearly a hundred years."

“Practice,” Crowley said firmly. “If you walk a cubit away from me, everyone will think we're on the point of divorce. We can work up to hand-holding.”

Aziraphale stole another glance up at him, looking becomingly flustered. “Cubit. That’s uncharacteristically old-fashioned of you, dea— Anthony."

“Perhaps I’m feeling nostalgic.” He paused at where the Bentley was parked half on the pavement and stroked her roof lovingly with one hand. “Hey, baby. Papa’s back. Do you know that Papa loves you?” he crooned.

“You’re not that car’s father," Aziraphale said testily.

“_You’re_ her Papa. I’m Daddy."

Aziraphale detached his hand from Crowley’s arm and went inside, without inviting Crowley to follow. The bell jangled and the lock turned.

Crowley stared at the locked door, and decided he wasn’t exactly displeased with the flounce. The time until Christmas seemed ripe with opportunities.

>   
**Notes:**  
  
1) I don't usually have two stories running at once, but given how research-heavy The Entire Bloody Boring Fourteenth Century is, daily updates on it are unlikely. I thought I needed something tropey and shameless to be going on with to fill my insatiable hunger to write and post about the boys. Don't worry, I will update every couple of days at the least.  
  
2) So I thought I would use the "one fill per chapter" rule on Ineffable Husbands Bingo and fill as many as I could, which is obviously a brilliant idea. Although I don't think Serial Killers AU is actually going to be cropping up in this one, not without a major mood change  
  
3) Story title and chapter titles are lyrics from Kylie Minogue songs, in honour of Dagon, who spoke to Crowley through the Pop Princess' voice. Does that mean my Paperwork Queen will turn up? Will they be series Dagon? Who can tell.   
  
4) Dear Kanna, didn't you just finish a Fake Marriage ineffable husbands story? Yes. Are you sick of the trope yet? No. It's totally different this time because it's Aziraphale's idea and he actually asked first. At least that's my story.  
  



	2. I'm looking for an angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Angel, I want a trial separation. You’re impossible.” The dial tone sounded.
> 
> Aziraphale sighed and sat down with his tea again. He felt quite strongly that he wasn’t the impossible one.

Aziraphale was nicely settled into his favourite chair with a cup of untasted tea when his phone rang.

He stared at the phone suspiciously. His tea was perfect, his favourite second flush Darjeeling, the leaves golden flowery orange Pekoe, prepared at exactly the right temperature, although he had forgotten to turn the kettle on at the plug. He hadn’t spent the twentieth and beginning of the twenty-first century hanging around Crowley without picking up a few habits around gadgets. The aroma was a perfect fruity muscatel, promising all kinds of pleasure, and the last thing he wanted to do was stand up and answer the phone instead of sipping it.

Only one person would have such infernal timing.

Aziraphale sighed, and lifted up the phone off its hook, tea in one hand.

“Where _are_ you?” Crowley’s aggrieved voice demanded.

“My dear boy, you just called my home phone number. Where do you think I am?"

“What are you doing there? You’re supposed to be having breakfast with me."

Aziraphale glanced at the rather beautiful mahogany bracket clock he had picked out in 1815 and forgotten to wind more than four times, but was still working properly. The small hand pointed to two. “I’ve already eaten,” he said mildly.

“When has that ever made a difference? Why aren’t you in London? _Oh sod off, we’re closed._"

“Are you in the bookshop?” Aziraphale asked, a little annoyed. He took a sip of tea. It was delicious, but his perfect moment had been spoiled. “Crowley, I’m sure I locked up properly before I left."

“So what? If I never came in when the shop was closed and locked, I’d never be here at all. _What do you mean that’s no way to talk to a customer? You’re not a customer, because the shop is closed. Get lost._"

“You could at least have closed the door behind you."

“I wasn’t expecting to be followed. _Look, the only way you’re leaving with that book is if I shove it where the sun doesn’t shine._ How do you manage to get anything done, with people trying to buy books all the time?"

“It’s difficult,” sighed Aziraphale. He was secretly impressed with how direct Crowley was being with the potential customer. He always found the need to be polite while refusing to sell books a bit wearying.

“_Talk to my manager? Do I look like I work here? Get. Out. Or I will make you._ There, they’re gone. Now get back here and come to breakfast like an angelic angel.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I do hope that human doesn’t call the police to report a stranger in the shop."

“I don’t think so. They might have to explain why they took the book without paying,” Crowley said, a bit guiltily.

“_Crowley._"

“It wasn’t one of your favourites."

“How do you _know?_” Aziraphale demanded, in agony.

“Look, I can’t interfere with shoplifting, you have no idea how many good marks that would earn me. Anyway, you deserve it. How can you spring a marriage on me and then vanish overnight?"

Aziraphale blinked. “Why? You agreed. I thought everything was settled. You said you didn’t mind doing it."

“Angel, I want a trial separation. You’re impossible.” The dial tone sounded.

Aziraphale sighed and sat down with his tea again. He felt quite strongly that he wasn’t the impossible one.

* * *

It was early closing at the antique shop, which kept more regular hours than the bookshop. Later that afternoon Aziraphale meandered gently down the road into the village, for his ritual of meeting Nell for cake and more, unfortunately less acceptable, tea. At some point he needed to convince the teashop that tourists would appreciate not paying four pounds fifty for a teabag and hot water.

The cakes were always scrumptious, as was the day. The lane down from the cottage was oak-lined and had been blazing with fiery colours what felt like only days ago, although tome went so fast. Now the last bright light of autumn filtered through the lovely shapes of the trees, the sky was a cold blue, and everything felt practically perfect. Aziraphale had the contented feeling that he had sorted everything out, and now could meet Nell in peace without any worrying expectations, although there was a tiny core of anxiety in his heart about the book. That terrible demon.

It was also a little dull. The thought flickered into his head, and Aziraphale extinguished it. Dull meant no Crusades, no plague, no war, no executions, no coming Antichrist. Dull was all he wanted. Dull was _good._

Nell met him with a smile on her comely face and no awkwardness, to his relief. She locked up and tucked her hand in his arm, which gave him an odd stab of memory of Crowley guiding Aziraphale’s own arm into his elbow, and they set off towards the medieval centre of the town together.

Nell was telling him about a new furniture acquisition and he was trying to remember not to show he’d known the long-dead cabinet maker personally, when she said, “What a beautiful car! You don’t see many of them these days. Still, they shouldn’t park there. These tourists are so inconsiderate. I hope they get a ticket."

With a sinking feeling, Aziraphale looked across to the shining Bentley which was not so much parked as stopped and abandoned half on the kerb in front of the teashop.

“Oh, dear,” he said.

Crowley lithely sprang from the car. “Angel! I’m here!” he called cheerily, then stopped and glared daggers at Nell, who took the hint and hastily dropped Aziraphale’s arm, looking a little frightened.

“I can see that.” Aziraphale came forward warily, and Crowley grabbed his forearms and whirled him around so that Crowley’s back was turned to Nell.

Crowley leaned forward slightly, and one eyebrow crooked questioningly above his sunglasses. Aziraphale realised, with a slight jolt, that he was silently asking if he should kiss him in greeting. He nodded slightly in assent, then tilted his head back and brushed his lips against Crowley’s mouth.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered as their mouths parted.

Crowley didn’t say anything. He was standing completely rigid, his mouth slack, his hands digging into Aziraphale’s upper arms quite painfully. Aziraphale stepped back, feeling somewhat as if his own lips were on fire. Perhaps it was a demon thing. Hellfire. Or just the fact that demons probably didn’t go around sharing chaste little kisses often. Crowley was slightly opening and closing his mouth, looking stunned, and Aziraphale hoped he hadn’t stung him with holiness or anything.

Aziraphale turned away, trying to break the awkward moment. “Anthony, this is my friend Nell. Nell, my husband Anthony.” It felt strange to say, and there was a odd energy to it, as if something had shocked him under the rib cage.

“I gathered,” said Nell, beaming and apparently deciding to forgive the parking violation. “How lovely to meet you, dear. I thought you were caught up in London with—crunch time, was it?"

Crowley appeared to recover himself. He cast a possessive arm over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I was fired."

“I—oh, dear—why—I’m so sorry..."

“Oh, nothing I did. Company was acquired and we all got laid off. Happens all the time.” Crowley gave her a dazzling smile. “I hope they enjoy the little surprise I left in the code for them."

Nell blinked a few times. “Will you get into trouble?"

“It will take them a while to notice,” he said reassuringly. "Internet in all forms is out all over London."

“Really? That’s very unusual. Why?"

“Yes, why?” Aziraphale echoed, in an entirely different tone.

“Could be malice. I heard someone influential’s husband stood them up for breakfast."

“Maybe they forgot to tell them they had a breakfast date in the first place."

“A successful marriage is all about anticipating each other’s needs, angel.” Crowley smiled sweetly at the confused Nell. “Would you like to join us for tea and coffee?"

Aziraphale turned away from Nell and glared at Crowley to let him know he had noticed and didn’t appreciate the careful nudging of his new friend into third wheel.

“I would love to,” Nell said, graciously. “Zira has been such a wonderful addition to our little community here. Are you staying long?"

“Oh, depends,” Crowley said happily. He gave Aziraphale a sidelong smirk. “Until after Christmas, at least.” He opened the door chivalrously and ushered them both inside, and Aziraphale was sure only he caught the mocking hiss, “_Zira._"

“Are you quite sure some more work won’t come up, dear?” Aziraphale asked, as Crowley, in what was probably a calculated effort to catch him off balance, pulled out a chair for him with a flourish.

“Don’t worry, my pet, I won’t take it. I’ve earned a holiday. What are you having, Nell? My treat.” His voice was pleasant, but he was glaring at her as if it was a challenge, one hand lazily summoning a waitress.

They ordered, and there was an uncomfortable silence, which Crowley suddenly broke. “Oh, I forgot! I brought you a present, angel. It’s in the Bentley."

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked warily.

“_The History of Farming in Ontario,_” he said, with unaccountable pride. The title was vaguely familiar.

“Oh! Are you interested in farming, Zira?” Nell asked.

“Only in as far as it contributes to his food,” Crowley said smoothly. “But you see, _Zira_ had a copy once, and it was recently stolen from his bookshop. So I recovered it for him. Oh, coffee, thank—someone."

Aziraphale knew it was irrational considering Crowley had allowed the book to be stolen, but relief and gratitude at the restored book flooded through him anyway. He took a delicate forkful of angel food cake, beaming fondly and deciding to take it as an apology. “I do hope you didn’t do anything _too_ terrible to get it."

“Only what was deserved for someone who dared to take one of your precious books. Bastard,” said Crowley, which was so unreasonable under the circumstances that Aziraphale gulped down his tea to hide his frown.

He realised he still held his forkful of angel food cake in his left hand, and raised it to his mouth. It was light as air, flavoured with rose water, and his eyes fluttered closed despite himself, his annoyance fading. Crowley really was very sweet in his own way, just like the cake… He let it melt in his mouth, and swallowed.

He heard twin dreamy sighs expelled in unison.

He opened his eyes to see Crowley scowling at so hard at Nell that his eyes were practically visible through his glasses. What on Earth was the problem _now_? He kicked Crowley under the table, and Crowley, unexpectedly, responded by reaching out across the table and lacing his fingers over his right hand.

Nell seemed to realise something was wrong, and not be sure why. She glanced nervously at Crowley, then down at the table.

“Poor Anthony has light sensitive eyes,” Aziraphale said softly to her. “Sometimes when they hurt they can make him look quite fierce. Don’t mind him, dear lady."

“Oh, of course!” She was all sympathy, except for a sliver of relief showing. “Poor dear."

Crowley had transferred his glare to Aziraphale again, thankfully. “Actually, I think I have a migraine coming on. Nell, so sorry to meet you and run, it’s been a pleasure. I’m sure I’ll see you very soon.” He cast a quite ridiculous amount of money on the table. Showoff. “Angel, I’ll get the cake packed to go for you.” He rose to his feet and sashayed across to the counter.

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said to Nell.

“Not at all! I’m so happy to meet Anthony. He’s charming. And so good looking."

Aziraphale cast a glance at Crowley, lounging against the counter, his cropped jacket sitting just right about slender hips. “I suppose he is, really,” he mused despite himself, and Nell giggled.

“Don’t you worry about anything,” she said comfortably. “You just get your handsome husband to bed and look after him."

Crowley, returning to the table, froze for a moment, as if he had been shot. Then he shook his head, his cheeks flaming, and said, “That sounds like an excellent idea. Good bye, Nell. Come on, angel.”

He hauled Aziraphale to his feet, and they left the teashop together.

“Are you having fun?” Aziraphale shot at him, as Crowley opened the passenger door with unnecessary showiness.

Crowley showed his teeth. “Oh, sweetheart, I am having the time of my life. Get in the car."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Okay, so watching Aziraphale eat might be a *wide* definition of threesome for the bingo, but what can I do?
> 
> 2) Yesterday was the first day in a very long while in which I didn't write a usable word, so being me, I decided I had forgotten how to write and would _never write again_. Woke up at 3 am and realised all I needed was alternating perspectives.


	3. You're lost in conversation and useless at Scrabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's idea of a "cozy cottage in the South Downs". Plus negotiating the rules of the fake marriage, and also the Ancient Romans really were super affectionate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having a bingo card fill for "Fluff" feels like cheating, but this is the elected chapter.

“That was quite rude,” Aziraphale said sternly, as the Bentley peeled off.

“I don’t like you eating cake around other people,” Crowley muttered. He clutched the box of cake on his lap with the hand not on the steering wheel, ready to slap Aziraphale if he tried to take it.

“I eat cake around other people all the time. We spend most of our time together eating around other people, and I usually have cake.” Aziraphale paused. “Or cannoli. Or soufflé. Or sorbet. Or...”

“They don’t usually sit there watching you. It was wrong. I think the human has a fetish for watching pure heavenly souls indulge in vices, and I was just saving her from a nasty spot on her soul. All part of the Arrangement. You owe me a temptation, now."

Aziraphale sniffed and started sorting through CDs, not that there would be time to put any on. Crowley was sure it was a snub.

“Look, I was bored and I wanted to see our cottage,” Crowley pouted. “I’ve never been good at small talk. By the way, where is it?"

“Other direction,” Aziraphale sighed. “I was wondering when you’d ask."

They tore down the correct lane at last, and pulled up. There was a salt tang on the air, and the sun streamed weakly through the clouds, lighting up the Suffolk Pink limewash on the… _cottage_. Crowley sprawled back in his seat and grinned at the huge fifteenth century farmhouse, as prim and perfect as something from a fairytale. Of course Aziraphale chose a pink house.

“Your cosy little cottage, angel? I’m so glad you are restricting yourself to a humble life in the country."

“Oh, hush,” said Aziraphale, turning the same shade as the cottage, if it could be called that.

Crowley jumped out, cake box clutched in his hands, and bounded up the gravel path. It was a huge garden, bounded by hedges. Crowley wondered how many extra acres came with it. He noted that the winter jasmine was looking a bit ragged, he would have to have a nice little chat with it later, and the viburnum was positively undisciplined. Poor downtrodden angel clearly needed him. He thought it was enough to let plants flourish and bloom with joy in his holy presence, he had no idea about imposing proper subservience. The garden needed to be taught to respect Aziraphale.

The dark wooden door opened at a snap of his fingers, and he looked around with curiosity. The rooms were wide and spacious, with exposed floors—time had been, when those would have been shameful, but now the shine was pretty—and huge fireplaces, but also, he noted, excellent central heating. No coating of grease from lamps and candles like he remembered in places like this, just clean pure light. There were bookshelves everywhere, and priceless knickknacks he remembered from the bookshop, all mementos of Aziraphale’s long life.

Crowley was conscious of a pang. The angel really was trying to put out some roots here. Shame they would have to be brutally ripped out, but the countryside was too dull for more than a visit. It was for his own good.

The kitchen was less impressive, and looked like Country Kitchen 1990s style. If Crowley ended up staying here longer than planned, he would have to have it ripped out and replaced with something more contemporary. He needed to send for his espresso machine. There was an electric kettle at least, and in the sink--

“Angel,” he said tenderly. “You’ve been trying to cook."

Aziraphale, who had been padding patiently behind him, clasped his hands defensively over _The History of Farming in Ontario_. “Well, it’s not like I can just wander out to the nearest place every time I get peckish. It’s quite a walk to the village."

Crowley stared at the encrusted, overcooked egg on the bottom of a saucepan. It gave him a strange tremulous feeling in what he supposed was his heart. “You know there are apps you can use to get food delivered whenever you want? Tourist trap like this would be bound to cater for delivery.” Aziraphale blinked, and Crowley sighed. “Of course you don’t know about plebeian meal delivery apps, my spoiled gourmand. You really do need a husband to take care of you, don’t you? Never mind, I’m here now.” He snapped his fingers and the dishes were clean. “I can take you out for food whenever you want. I can do any cooking necessary, too."

“You can cook?"

“I watch TV, don’t I? Can’t be that hard. Reality cooking shows have been a source of much approval down there. Some innocent old lady has her footage edited to make it look like she did something underhand, social media goes bonkers calling for her blood, I get a commendation."

“That’s not very nice."

“The humans love it. Nothing like a target for hatred and outrage.” Crowley strolled out of the kitchen. “Oh, good, there’s a conservatory, I don’t have to miracle one up. My plants are arriving tomorrow, so I can’t take you shopping until then."

“You’ve sent for your houseplants to be moved?"

“I don’t want them to get rebellious. Leave them alone too long, and they’ll start planning a coup."

“I think you’re confusing them with demons."

“Well, they are like my children. Like Daddy, like plants. And rebellious children have to be cast out, that’s the rule, isn’t it?"

Aziraphale ignored the bait. “How long are you intending to stay?"

“Until Christmas, obviously. And then—" Crowley hesitated. It might be tactless to say _until you get bored with this whole stupid retiring to the country idea and come back to London with me like a good angel._ “We’ll see. You don’t want your new friends to think your marriage is in trouble, do you?” He spun on his heel and slithered up the stairs.

“Five bedrooms, Aziraphale? What do you need with five bedrooms and three bathrooms? This is excessive indulgence. You don’t even sleep. I like the hot tub, though. Thoughtful of you to get one big enough for two. Which bedroom is mine?"

“Whichever you like, dear,” sighed Aziraphale, following him upstairs.

“Well, not the one with twin beds, everyone will think we’re on the verge of divorce. Warlock can use that if he brings a friend to sleep over. Oh, I like this one.” Crowley bounced on a bed with a huge, ornate dark oak frame. “Yep, I like this one very much. Wonderful mattress, wasted on you.” He kicked off his snakeskin shoes and slid under the sheet and patchwork comforter to test it. “Good choice.”

He snuggled into the deep pillows. It was comfortable and warm, and oddly smelled of Aziraphale, although that was probably just because he was standing close. He could detect the scents he identified with the angel, sun on skin and fresh clouds and newly baked cake, under the new cologne. He tasted the air carefully with the tip of his tongue. He could get used to this one. Rich red roses over woodsy smells and herbs and booze, opulent and bracing and sweet all at once...

“I’m glad you approve. Wait—_Crowley_."

“Mmmrgh?"

“Don’t go to sleep! We need to talk."

Crowley blinked awake, a little irritated now he had settled for a nice afternoon nap surrounded by lovely angel fragrance. “Now?"

“Yes, now!"

He pushed himself up on one elbow. “Yeah, go on, then."

Aziraphale glared at him a moment, then snatched up the cake box. “I’m going to make some tea."

Crowley stared after him for a moment before realising he was supposed to get out of bed and follow. He rolled his eyes and obeyed.

Tea was already waiting. He picked up his cup. He preferred coffee, but Aziraphale could make tea like no one else, and it would do. And Aziraphale had actually sliced the remaining angel food cake in half and put it on two plates. Crowley had no real desire to eat his, and Aziraphale knew it, but the thought was there, and was token of forgiveness. Crowley decided to take it as such, especially as Aziraphale was his sole source of forgiveness in the world. He lounged back, cradling his cup.

“What do you need to talk about, angel, that is so serious you need tea for it?"

Aziraphale but his lip, glanced down, back at Crowley’s face, and down again. It wasn’t usually a good sign. “I think we need to establish ground rules as—as housemates."

“What, pick up my socks and underwear after myself? Don’t worry, I just cast them into the ether anyway. I’ve already said I’ll cook. And I won’t let us run out of hot water. Heating things up is kind of my thing."

“I mean, boundaries while you’re here."

“When have we ever needed boundaries between the two of us? Not for hundreds of years. There’s already the Arrangement. I won’t get in the way of your work, angel, and I’ll keep mine out of your way as much as possible."

“That’s not what I meant.” Aziraphale’s hands were restless, and he was blushing and fluttering. “I mean, with other people. Expressions of, of physical affection."

“Oh,” said Crowley slowly. “Physical affection.” He felt heat creep up his neck, and cursed himself for acting like a human adolescent. It was just… the angel. His wholesomeness was so achingly pure that half his demonic instincts told him to turn and flee before he was exorcised, and the other half was urging him to reach out and grab him.

“I realise I may have been out of order when I kissed you on the lips rather than the cheek,” Aziraphale said in a rush. “I thought that what was expected, but you seemed shocked. I apologise if it was too forward."

“N-no, that was fine. Just a peck. Rather too cool if anything. I mean, you hadn’t seen me since yesterday."

“I find it rather difficult to keep up with different fashions in greetings,” Aziraphale said, a little fretfully. “It changes all the time."

“You’re really worried about this, aren’t you?” Crowley said curiously. “Look, don’t worry about going too far. It’s pretty difficult to shock me."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?"

“Yeah, erhm, just taken by surprise. I assumed I would be the one to kiss you,” said Crowley, which was only half a lie.

“In human terms, I appear to be the elder. So it seemed appropriate that I initiate."

The formal phrasing was going to discorporate him with awkwardness. “This really isn’t about familial status, but it will do for a start. Look, this shouldn’t be a big deal,” said Crowley, hypocritically. “You used to kiss people on the mouth all the time in Rome."

“Well, isn’t that what I did?"

“Not the unfriendly closed mouth, half lip kiss. Use both lips, with real affection.” He was sure his face was matching his hair. “I’ve seen you kiss both men and women hundreds of times like that, you can’t have forgotten completely. The only difference is that it’s me, and you never kissed me.”

Aziraphale was staring at him, expressions moving across his face so fleetingly that Crowley wasn’t sure he could catch them all. “Crowley, you were a demon. Well, you still are."

“Yeah, I know, and we didn’t have the Arrangement, couldn’t exactly go about kissing your Adversary like a friend.” He took a gulp of the tea as an excuse to look away. “I suppose it’s all right now. Should have thought of that before you asked me to pose as your husband, maybe."

“I used to bless people when I kissed them. Not even consciously, I didn’t have enough human control over my powers yet. I was afraid my blessing would burn you, in a way that couldn’t be fixed. We may not have been close then, but I had no desire to reduce your mouth to bubbling ichor."

Crowley stared at him. In all his years of imagining and daydreaming and bitterness, that had never occurred to him.

“I wasn’t entirely at ease about my own safety, and I thought you never kissed me in greeting out of similar considerations. I’ve seen you produce hellfire from your mouth on occasion.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “In fact, this afternoon, for a moment I feared I had indeed burned you."

“I don’t produce hellfire unless I choose to,” Crowley said weakly. “And, no, you didn’t burn. Not in that way."

It should be some kind of sin to look that adorable when puzzled. Aziraphale should be Falling right now, like the golden velvet wrapped temptation he was. Not that he could bear the thought of Aziraphale Falling, really. “Then what was the problem?"

“Just not used to it.” He took a deep breath. “I never kissed anyone out of affection. It was always the prelude to, well, deception or temptation. And I haven’t done much of _that_ since, well, it doesn’t matter. I knew it _was_ for the purposes of deception, it just—“ Didn’t feel like that. It felt tender and somehow significant. “I _know_ you, and you’re not a target. It took me by surprise."

“I’m sorry if this is painful for you,” Aziraphale said awkwardly. “If you’d rather change your mind, I can make an excuse for you going back to London."

“No, no it’s not that. It’s fine. I will be better prepared next time.” He made himself smile, long and slow and confident, pulling off his glasses. “It will be _fun_."

“Oh dear,” sighed the angel, but his lips were quirking.”Your idea of fun is sometimes somewhat alarming."

Crowley smiled for real this time. “All good now?"

“Well, you talked about working up to hand-holding. And in the tea shop you held my hand.” Aziraphale brought his own cup to his lips.

“Too much?” He hadn’t been able to help it, really. It had been an instinctive gesture of ownership in the face of that human woman, and he knew it.

Aziraphale glanced at him over the rim of the cup, and away. “No. No, that was acceptable. I think hand holding is appropriate.” His gaze flickered back to Crowley’s face, then his hand, and then he took another sip.

“Umm. Good. Right. Okay.” Crowley’s fingers were twitching.

The phone rang, saving them both from the conversation. Aziraphale went to answer it with some haste, while Crowley found himself bristling. It wasn’t like it was the _shop_. There was no way this was an enquiry about a book. This was someone who Aziraphale had presumably given his number to, on purpose so they could contact him.

Or someone selling double glazing. Crowley relaxed a little.

“Tristan! How good to hear from you, my dear,” Aziraphale said warmly.

Or not. Crowley decided, out of pure spite, to eat his half of the cake after all. He shoved it in his mouth whole, then nearly choked when Aziraphale said, “A party? Tonight?” Crowley washed the cake down with the tea. What kind of party did they have in a place like this, anyway? Was it just code for a cosy game of Scrabble? _Tristan_. Tristan sounded like the kind of name someone—well, like Aziraphale would have. Someone who would play Scrabble and discuss old books and telegraph crosswords and have fine brandy and be erudite and witty and as gay as a scarlet macaw. Crowley hated him already.

“You see, my husband Anthony—oh, you heard about him from Nell? That’s very kind of you,” Aziraphale went on, his tone firm, “but he’s just got home from London and he’s tired from the drive--"

Crowley twisted the receiver out of his hand. “Hullo—Tristan, is it? I’m Anthony. Oh, that beautiful big house on the main street? Oh, yes, she's a custom body Derby Bentley, one owner from new, my pride and joy. Of course, they were _all_ custom. I’d _adore_ to show her off to you. No, no, Ezra is just coddling me. Yeah, he _is_ a big old sweetie, isn’t he? Just the perfect way to describe him.” He smirked at Aziraphale. "We would love to come. I can’t wait to meet everyone. Okay, yeah, see you at eight, ciao."

He hung up, and said, “Looks like you have a few hours to come up with my special endearment, you big old sweetie, you. I’m taking a nap.” He headed for the stairs.

“Crowley?"

“Hmm?” He turned back, and Aziraphale came forward, an odd, determined look on his face.

“I’m sorry about Rome."

Crowley blinked. “Angel, that was a very, very long time ago."

“But I hurt you with my caution."

“Nah, of course not. We were enemies."

“We were The Enemy, but never enemies. And I did hurt you. I didn’t mean to make you feel less to me than any human.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, glanced away, and then stepped forward, reaching up. He placed his hands behind Crowley’s head, fingers curled above the neck, a thumb on each cheek—_taking me by the ears_, Crowley thought, the old phrase coming back—and drew down his face and kissed him, once on the lips, lips parted and pliant, then pulling Crowley’s head down more to plant a soft, warm kiss on each eyelid. Mouth-to-mouth-to-eyes, tender and intimate.

“_Tibi placidia somnia cupio_.” Aziraphale smiled up at him, open and innocent, as if he had no idea Crowley’s world was flying apart with each embrace. Just filling in a missed gesture of friendship from centuries before, making sure a friend wasn’t hurt.

“See, no ichor,” Crowley said unsteadily. His mind fled back to Ancient Rome, to drunkenly whispering to Aziraphale’s retreating back, knowing the angel couldn’t hear, and despite himself the same words escaped him in a rush. “_Vale. Memento, tu angelus meus es_"

And then, just like he had that day, he turned and fled.

The bedroom door closed behind him, and he flung himself on the bed, aware of nothing but the shadows of kisses on his mouth and eyes, and of his own horrified embarrassment at himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Back in the day, I read one too many book fandom South Downs cottage stories in which they had one tiny bedroom and fretted about the rent/cost. This is more how I see them, sacrificing not one inch of comfort.
> 
> 2) Although I now I associate Aventus with Gabriel marking Aziraphale out as property (entirely my own fault), I still think Creed would be Aziraphale (and his barber’s) perfume house of choice. So if you’re curious, this is Windsor, a 2009 perfume based on one given to Edward VIII on his abdication. Rose, eucalyptus, pine, gin, lime, cedar, orange.
> 
> 3) It would be really unfortunate if Crowley did the “produce hellfire from your saliva to sign paperwork” trick while kissing.
> 
> 4) I read and write no Latin, pleb that I am. Thank you to Daemonia for _Tibi placidia somnia cupio_ (I wish you the most pleasant dreams) and _Memento, tu angelus meus es_ (remember, you are my angel) as better than my originals, Thanks and kisses! 


	4. Only you, you get me acting crazy like I do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come now. It will be _fun,_” Aziraphale said happily.
> 
> “Do you think anyone would notice if I sank into a pool of brimstone and went back to Hell? Not that I could probably tell the difference."

“Aziraphale, are those new clothes?” Crowley was staring at Aziraphale with his hardest attention.

“Nice of you to finally notice."

“I thought you’d settled on your look for the next three centuries."

“It wasn’t really suitable for the country. Besides, my waistcoat was getting a little worn. I was afraid of losing it altogether if I wore it too much. And my jacket—my jacket is precious."

“Hmmph.” Crowley reached out and slid his hand down one sleeve of the tailored cashmere cardigan, feeling the cloud-like plushiness of it, letting his hand drift to the lapels that made it just enough like a jacket that Aziraphale was comfortable wearing it out. He straightened Aziraphale’s bowtie. “I was beginning to think you’d stopped caring about keeping up standards. Let’s go.” It wasn’t a compliment by any means, but something in the demon’s expression made Aziraphale feel oddly happy, especially when Crowley stopped by the wall of the cottage and broke off a stem of winter jasmine starred with golden flowers.

“And if you don’t start standing up better, I’ll break off a lot more than that,” he snarled in a perfunctory way, and then tucked the fragrant stem in Aziraphale’s breast pocket. “Needed a touch more gold,” he said shortly. “Come on, let’s party. For a given value of the word party. I want to show off my husband."

Aziraphale felt he should have been happy that Crowley seemed enthusiastic about the party. He couldn’t help a little a drop in his stomach when Crowley slithered into the driving seat with a complacent grin.

“I’m afraid it’s not going to be quite your kind of party.” Aziraphale plucked at his sleeves.

“What do you know about my kind of party, angel?” The Bentley showered gravel across the drive as it pulled out.

“I mean that there’s not going to be a lot of decadence and sin there."

“Aziraphale, anywhere you go is decadent. You can shower decadence over a train station caff just by ordering extra butter on your toast. And sin is where you—or rather I—find it."

“None of that,” Aziraphale said sharply. “The Arrangement is in force, and you know you ceded this whole area to me long ago."

“Did I?” The demon pursed his lips, which didn’t help Aziraphale’s anxiety. “I’m not sure I recall that."

“You got Camberley in return."

“Ah. Wasn’t that aesthetics and atmosphere only? It explains all the pink houses here, though."

“Please behave for just one evening. They’re my _friends._"

Crowley was silent for a few heartbeats, frowning at the road. “You were only invited at the last minute,” he said quietly, almost as if he was afraid of hurting Aziraphale’s feelings.

“No, _you_ were invited at the last minute, Crowley, out of kindness. It had slipped my mind because a demon turned up in town saying he was staying until Christmas."

“Anthony,” Crowley said. “Might as well practice calling me that before we get there, _Zira_. Unless—well.” The hard line of his mouth relaxed a little. “Have you decided on an endearment?"

“You’re being ridiculous.” Aziraphale turned to stare out the window, even though the speed at which the countryside was flashing by made him feel wobbly.

“I’m not. Have you thought about it at all?"

Of course he had, trying out different options in his head, imagining saying them while looking at Crowley, feeling himself curl up inside as if he was a cat protecting its vulnerable belly. Which was probably the point. Crowley took altogether too much pleasure in unsettling him. He went for the safest option. “If _my dear_ is too general, then I thought perhaps _dearest_ might show that you are, well, in a more special category."

Crowley was wordless so long that Aziraphale turned to look questioningly at him. “I’ll take it. We’re here.”

The demon sprang out of the car without further comment, and Aziraphale reached for the door handle. The door was already opening, though, and Aziraphale found himself being carefully handed out in a way that reminded him of other times, of carriages and hansom cabs. Crowley had once prided himself on being chivalrous and the perfect gentleman, before joyfully embracing modern casualness and the potential to be rude at all times.

A cool hand slid into his, pressing palm to palm, fingers loosely weaving through his. “Ready for some _fun_?"

“It really is going to be fun,” Aziraphale promised, with a small smile. “You’ll see."

* * *

Aziraphale couldn’t help noticing that Crowley was a bit of a discordant note at the party. He looked cool and sharp, for a given value of cool, in his tight black clothes, and had been polite and even charming during introductions. He had clasped Tristan’s hand as if he was a long lost friend, and even complimented him on his beautiful house. Aziraphale had started to relax a little.

Now the demon’s good humour was already visibly fading. Crowley was restlessly circling Aziraphale, neck outstretched warily, as if scanning the room for threats. It was ridiculous. The room was full of warm, happy, well-dressed humans enjoying each other’s company. No threats to be seen.

“Fetch me another drink, dearest,” Aziraphale said, trying to break the tension a little, or at least focus better on his conversation with Nell, who was looking perfectly charming in a burgundy wool dress. A _tartan_ burgundy wool pencil dress, he felt like pointing out to Crowley. Tartan was stylish.

“Yeah, more alcohol is a good idea,” Crowley said morosely. “Anything else I can get you, angel?"

“Some more canapés would be nice. And a drink for Nell."

Crowley headed off in the direction of Tristan, who looked distinguished in his impeccably casual blue _tartan_ shirt.

“He's so whipped,” one of the London voices said at the edge of Aziraphale’s hearing. “Makes no sense. I mean, someone who looks like an ageing rock star can’t be all that thirsty. I’d climb that like a tree."

There was a snort of laughter from his companion. “_I_ see it. I’d rather sit on Zira like an armchair."

Aziraphale found modern idioms hard to follow, but he filed the conversation in his head to ask Crowley to translate later. He turned back to his conversation with Nell about Wodehouse first editions.

He was rudely interrupted. “Angel, we’re leaving. Right now,” Crowley hissed urgently into Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale looked up, a little annoyed. Crowley grabbed his arm and steered him away with no pretence at manners.

“We’ve barely got here. Did you forget my drink?”

Crowley gave him a desperate, terrified look. “We don’t have long to escape. Come on, my migraine is coming back."

“Whatever do you mean, we don’t have long?"

There was a bright ringing of spoon against glass. “Attention, everyone.” Tristan’s handsome face was smiling. “There’s a few people here tonight who have yet to have met each other, so I thought it would be a good opportunity to have an icebreaker."

“Oh Satan, it’s too late,” moaned Crowley. “I warned you."

“Ah.” Aziraphale beamed. “Party games."

“Hnghrh."

“Don’t sound like that. Didn’t you claim credit for having invented them?"

“I _did_ invent them. I wasn’t supposed to play them myself."

“Come now. It will be _fun_,” Aziraphale said happily.

“Do you think anyone would notice if I sank into a pool of brimstone and went back to Hell? Not that I could probably tell the difference."

“I thought,” said Tristan’s resonant bass voice, “we could start with something a little boisterous. What about Reverend Crawley’s Game?"

“There, my dearest.” Aziraphale patted Crowley kindly on the arm. “It’s named after you and everything."

Crowley made an agonised sound that no human throat should have been able to produce.

“Right, everyone, drinks down and in a circle. Come close in."

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and pulled him towards the circle. They were nearly there when Crowley’s hand slid with serpentine slipperiness out of his grip. Aziraphale tutted and looked around, ready to scold him for trying to escape the game. Crowley, to his surprise, had joined the circle several places away from him. Perhaps he really _was_ in one of his sulks and was making a point.

“All right,” Tristan said. “Everyone, reach out and take someone’s hand in each hand, but _not_ the person next to you."

Crowley’s hands moved like twin vipers striking, and Aziraphale’s hand was caught in a cold clasp. Ah, so that was it. Of course Crowley knew the rules. Aziraphale looked with interest to find that Tristan’s brown hand was also in a sudden demonic grip, apparently a little to his surprise.

There was much giggling and crossing of hands across the circle, and Aziraphale found his hand in the grasp of the pleasant young man from London who had compared him to an armchair, which Aziraphale would have found quite insulting if not for the tone. It was hard to be sure behind his dark glasses, but Crowley seemed to be glaring at the poor boy for some reason.

“Right. Now… untangle!"

There were shrieks and titters as people began to crash into each other, ducking and weaving and twisting. Everyone, Aziraphale noted, was just tipsy enough to be giggling and clumsy. The young man whose hand Aziraphale was holding dived towards him, but Aziraphale was twirled away by Crowley’s grasp, coming bodily up against an elderly lady he recognised as a frequent antique shop customer instead, and nodding politely at her despite the embarrassing closeness. He could feel hot breath down his collar, but before he could work out who it came from Crowley had pulled him away again, and the gentleman who ran the post office was apologising and trying to slide under their linked arms. A young lady fell with a squeal at the side of the circle but managed to keep hold of her companions, laughing helplessly as people stepped over her arms and legs.

How could Crowley object to this? It was all wholesome gaiety.

Perhaps the name of the game was not actually a coincidence, although Aziraphale had no idea how anyone could mistake Crowley for a Reverend. Maybe it was all the black he wore. Either way, there seemed a distinct advantage to being serpentinely inclined in a game of this kind. Crowley ducked and weaved and slid with a grim expression, apparent purpose and what seemed like altogether too many joints to be human. Aziraphale resigned himself to just hanging on and surrendering to his lead, dragging the young Londoner along with him as he was spun and tugged and crashed against other people.

Crowley stepped agilely over a pair of arms from two people bent over nearly double in their attempts not to let go—how could Crowley, who normally struggled to walk straight in a convincingly human fashion, suddenly be so precise in his movements?— and although their arms were now stretched out awkwardly with Harriet from the pet shop’s arm caught between their forearms and linked hands, Crowley was now pressed against his side.

“I’m going to get you back for this, my turtle-dove,” he hissed into Aziraphale’s ear. “The tortures I endure for you.” There was a brief, surprisingly velvet pressure on Aziraphale’s cheek right next to his ear, and Crowley ducked away again.

Right. Of course, it was natural for a married couple who found themselves in that position to indulge in an affectionate kiss on the cheek. Would be odd if they didn’t. No reason for Aziraphale’s cheeks to flame up in response. _Turtle-dove._ Crowley was ridiculous.

Crowley must have moved too abruptly, because Tristan stumbled hard and had trouble righting himself, his normally poised demeanour spoiled.

And suddenly, without any clear reason, the large tangled knot righted itself into two separate circles of laughing people, hand in hand, the fallen being helped to their feet. Aziraphale felt the death grip of Crowley’s cool hand relax, and turned to smile warmly at the man holding his other hand in a more human grasp, as he released it. The man looked pleased, pretty hazel eyes lighting up; he can’t have meant any harm by his comments before. Crowley kept holding Aziraphale's hand but dropped Tristan’s as if it was something unpleasant.

“See?” Aziraphale said, laughing up at Crowley. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

Crowley made a sound between a growl and a hiss.

Tristan stepped towards the centre of the room and clapped his hands. “Right, now we’re all warmed up and getting closer to each other—“ There was a twitter of appreciative chuckles — “time to get to know each other _really_ well."

He picked up a tablet, and showed it to the gathering. “We pick a number from this waste paper basket, and then we go in the order of our numbers, and we all get three minutes to talk with the group about our fun conversational question. It’s a great way to find out really interesting things about each other.” There was a delighted chorus of anticipatory giggles and whispers.

Crowley leaned in to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear. “If you make me do this, I’m going to discorporate. No, wait, I am going to fucking discorporate _you_, and then take a shower in holy water. I am warning you, angel."

Aziraphale glimmered up at him. “Nonsense, darling. It’s going to be _fun_.” He rose on his tiptoes and planted a kiss on the side of Crowley's jaw.

Crowley abruptly turned red and shut up, and Aziraphale had a weird, giddying sense of power. Who knew that demons were so easy to embarrass into compliance? He should have tried this decades ago.

He smiled serenely at the gathered company, cradling Crowley’s hand in his, and said to Tristan, “What a perfectly _scrumptious_ idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Fashion notes, for those of you who like them. Aziraphale wears a [ Brunello Cucinelli tailored cashmere cardigan](https://www.harrods.com/en-gb/brunello-cucinelli/cashmere-cardigan-p000000000006432236?bcid=M010010040000), described as “perfect for throwing on before lounging by the fireplace”, although I assume his trousers and shirt are personally tailored.
> 
> 2) Tartan _is_ stylish in 2019. Tristan wears[ Tom Ford ](https://www.harrods.com/en-gb/tom-ford/western-tartan-shirt-p000000000006408716), and Nell wears [ Amanda Wakely ](https://www.harrods.com/en-gb/amanda-wakeley/check-midi-dress-p000000000006390200?bcid=StructureGroup_3495698779319384).__
> 
> 3) Yeah this entire chapter was an excuse to make Crowley die inside. Serves him right for inventing these bloody games, I blush even reading the descriptions of something like Birdies on Perches, you demonic bastard. The amount of painful icebreaker games I’ve had to play at work training sometimes, I would prefer paintball with real guns to learning and sharing “interesting facts” about each other. Also, if you are one of the people who claim to like charades and suggest them at gatherings, you are a demon from Hell and I am on to your game.
> 
> __  
_But also knowing there is a parlour game called Reverend Crawley’s Game was just too much for me._  



	5. Be my supernova

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A party is the obvious place to discuss deadly sins and supernovas.

Tristan was even worse than Crowley had feared. He was a good half head taller than the demon, about forty and ageing extremely well, with clearly developed musculature filling out his moleskin jeans and impeccably casual blue shirt. His impeccably casual blue _tartan_ shirt, the sneaky bastard. He also had delicate gold-framed glasses, tight dark curls and a kind smile, and Crowley could feel the venom threatening to drip from his own eye teeth. He felt short and skinny and pale and insignificant, and all he could do was thrust his weight on one hip and _think_ sexy as hard as he could, while comforting himself with the thought that this man would be dead of old age and out of their lives in no time at all, relatively.

It was impossible to fool himself that Tristan wasn’t interested in men, either, not given his guests from London. The room was the exact mixture of moneyed, educated respectability and discreet camp that Crowley had most feared, on the grounds that it would fit Aziraphale like a glove. And it _did_. The angel was clearly having the time of his life, hellish party games and all, beaming like a daffodil in Spring. It was the bloody Victorian era all over again. Or the 1930s. Either way, it stank like sulphur and burned Crowley's tongue.

Crowley had the despairing feeling that this was Aziraphale land, tartan and all, and the only jarring note here was the snake who had just slithered in on his arm. Aziraphale was so _happy_. For the first time, he found himself seriously considering if this retirement to the South Downs thing was not just an inconvenience, like that times Aziraphale had decided to work in monasteries for a few months or years before becoming bored, or a sign of something deeper. Something Aziraphale had actually been missing, and could find here.

Still. Aziraphale had just kissed _his_ jaw, and he had the advantage of six thousand years of propinquity. _And_ of officially holding the husband title. He was pretty sure that would keep Nell at bay, even if she had been optimistic enough to think he might fancy something a bit on the womanly side, but Tristan… He was altogether too good looking and suspiciously untroubled to meet Crowley. Not happy. Untroubled. As if dismissing him as not a threat, before turning his attention to Aziraphale, the wealthy new queen in the neighbourhood. Crowley didn’t trust him one inch.

He held onto Aziraphale’s hand and fretted through the insanely boring answers to “What is your most embarrassing holiday memory?” “What was your favourite book as a child?” and “If you were in a circus, what role would you play?” He was mildly interested in “What famous dead person would you bring back?” because he could have told them some things he personally knew about Mahatma Gandhi and Winston Churchill that would make their toes curl. Aziraphale was obviously thinking the same thing because there was a warning pressure on his hand.

Crowley's number was 6, because of course it was. Aziraphale was smiling encouragingly at him, so he went forward to the seat at the middle of the circle and reluctantly touched the tablet, cursing himself for his weakness. It was the way Aziraphale seemed to make his eyes go even bigger and rounder when he wanted something, and then went all gentle and glowing when he got it. Bastard.

“Which of the seven deadly sins represents you best?” Crowley's lips curled despite himself. Aziraphale was looking suspiciously at him, and Crowley spread his hands to show innocence. Any exertion of demonic power had been purely unintentional. “Well, that’s easy. I try to go in for all of them as a matter of principle, but I specialise in _acedia_. Sloth."

Aziraphale leaned forward, looking interested. “I don’t know, dearest, you work _very_ hard at taking credit for things other people have done or manipulating them into doing them for you or covering up not having done them at all. Harder than if you’d actually done the work in the first place, I sometimes think. An excellent example of evil always being its own downfall. Isn't _superbia_ more apt, anyway? Pride and hubris have always been your signature.”

Crowley glared at him, despite being a little touched by how much interest Aziraphale took in his work. Of course, one way or another, Aziraphale ended up doing a lot of his work for him. “I’m _extremely_ proud of my laziness.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, and Crowley sighed. “Point taken. I still think of sloth as one of my better points.” He grinned, and added meaningfully, “I’m thinking of going in more for _luxuria_ and _fornicatio_ these days.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Yes, dearest, I’m sure you will try very hard,” he said crushingly, which made Crowley dissolve. He was helpless when Aziraphale was bitchy.

He tried to regain his mental footing. “_Avaritia_ is a good one, too. No such thing as too much money. Especially with your taste in restuarants to support."

“_Vanagloria_ goes without saying,” said Aziraphale, sounding quite admiring of him for it. It was nice to feel supported. “In those jeans, anyway."

“Unfair blow. It’s only vainglory if it’s not justified."

“_Superbia_,” Aziraphale murmured again, smugly.

“In any case, _vanagloria_ is usually replaced with _invidia_ these days. Wanting what you can’t or shouldn’t have and doesn’t belong to you. Well, I suppose I _do_ suffer from that. Suffer terribly.” He tried to look tragically and longingly at Aziraphale, but judging from the kindly pity he was met with, the angel was thinking in terms of Grace and Heaven and not in more directly romantic or seductive ways. Which kind of proved the point.

“What about wrath?” asked Nell, in a fascinated tone.

“Oh, he’s not all that bad-tempered. An old softie, really,” said Aziraphale lightly. “That’s a point, you might need to work on your _ira_ to keep appearances up."

“_Try me_,” growled Crowley, unsure if he should be scowling at Aziraphale, Nell, Tristan or the man who had talked about sitting on Aziraphale. “What are we missing?"

“You should know, dear. It’s your area of expertise."

“Really? Because I think _gula_ is all yours."

“Oh, no, I’m not the glutton. I just enjoy the pleasures of life. You can outdrink me any time, and just look at the luxury you keep yourself in, _without even enjoying it._ That’s the essence of _gula_, if you ask me. Endless consumption without joy."

“I enjoy my Bentley,” he said defensively.

“Yes, darling, but is it a luxury or a substitute child?"

Crowley snorted, conceding the point, possibly because the _darling_ was leaving him blushing again. “That leaves _tristitia._"

“Isn’t that ten sins?” asked some woman whose name Crowley had immediately forgotten on introduction.

“Eight, dear,” said Aziraphale. “_Luxuria_ and _fornicatio_ both come under Lust, and _invidia_ and _vanagloria_ are interchangeable, even though envy and vainglory are quite different really. Unfortunately, people often leave _tristitia_ off the list to make seven. It's a shame because despair leads to the most sins of all and you should be especially on guard against it,” he added, looking far too close to waving a chiding finger at her. She cowered back into her seat a little, looking guilty.

“_Tristitia_ is not exactly a _fun_ sin,” said Crowley. “That might be why I’m not very good at it. Can’t help at least a little optimism in this glorious world."

Aziraphale smiled fondly at him. “I can’t say I’m sorry about that."

Tristan cleared his throat. “Ahem. Time’s up. Well done, Anthony, I think we all know _much_ more about you now.” He gave Aziraphale a deeply sympathetic look, and Crowley reflected that actually wrath came quite naturally to him.

He caught a whisper of “No wonder he got fired,” from somewhere across the room, and “Poor Zira,” from somewhere else, but he couldn’t detect the culprits.

“Seven—oh, Zira."

The angel and the demon exchanged places, and Aziraphale pressed the tablet with happy anticipation. “Favourite childhood memory. Oh dear."

Crowley sprawled back and gave him his full attention. He did so love watching the angel lie. Especially when he became flustered. Having to invent a childhood on the spot would do it. The amount of fluttering fingers and even more fluttering lashes should be quite beautiful.

“If it’s a painful subject—" said Nell, quickly, but Aziraphale smiled reassuringly at her.

“Not at all, dear. Just a long time ago.” Lie number one, or at least nearly so. “I think my most precious early memory, apart from my Mother, must be the first time I saw a supernova. I was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen—galactic dust and light in the darkness. They are the cradles of stars and the graves of stars, you know, and created by seraphim."

Crowley felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Do you really believe that, or is it poetry?” asked Nell.

“Is there a difference, dear?” Aziraphale asked. “Michael, Prince of the Seraphim, oversaw their creation, but it was Lucifer who became proud from it, and took other angels down with him.” He didn’t look sad at all, or regretful, just matter of fact. “In any case, I saw the birth of this nebula, and the angel that created it. I never would forget it."

Maybe I don’t have to sabotage Aziraphale's relationships with these people after all, Crowley thought wildly. Maybe he seems just weird enough that they will drop him themselves. But, of course, rich people are eccentric, not weird, and—oh, no. Aziraphale’s face was radiant and starry-eyed and half the faces turned to him were entranced and _adoring._ Bless everything to Heaven.

“What did the angel look like?” Of course Tristan was one of the entranced ones.

“Well, they were a seraph in their true form, dear, so there were a lot of wings and eyes and things,” Aziraphale said, looking at Tristan and not at Crowley, as if there was no particular reason to look at the demon. Perhaps, to him, there wasn’t. “A golden serpent, twisting in flame. I told myself I would recognise them if I saw them again."

“Did you?” Tristan breathed.

Aziraphale smiled sweetly. “That would be telling."

“Ngk.” Crowley fell even further back in his seat and closed his eyes.

“Oh, Anthony, are you all right?” Aziraphale asked. “Tristan, I’m sorry, I know it is still my turn, but I think I have to get him home. It’s been a long day, and he’s had a migraine."

“Of course, of course.” Tristan rose walked over, and clasped his hand, kissing his cheek. “Thank you for coming, and for the most beautiful story of the night."

“It was absolutely my pleasure,” Aziraphale said, returning the kiss. Then he dropped the hand and extended a hand to Crowley. “Come on, dearest, let’s get you home. Indulge in some sloth."

Crowley managed a weak smile and let himself be towed out, nodding at various farewells. The sky outside wasn’t entirely free of light pollution, none of this island was, but the stars were sharper than in London. He hesitated a little on the path, staring up at them, and Aziraphale waited beside him.

“Which nebula, angel?” His voice was a little hoarse.

Aziraphale gave a self-deprecating little smile. "M97, I believe. Not a very romantic name, sounds like a motorway. It went supernova about—"

“Ssix thousand years ago. Yess. Right before time sstarted properly, jusst before the first War.” He tried to control the hissing. "It wasn’t—it wasn’t a very _impressive_ nebula."

“Really? I thought it was exquisite."

“All this time, and you decide to come out with it in front of the humans."

“Well, that’s the point of these games, isn’t it? To say things you wouldn’t say otherwise. That’s precisely why you invented them, to get people into trouble. In any case, I wasn’t _sure_. And it didn’t seem to matter anyway, none of that did. Sometimes I think nothing mattered before the Garden. This world really is glorious, isn’t it? And we contributed to saving it."

“Yeah.” He tried to regain his composure. “Did you _have_ to kiss Tristan in front of your husband?"

“It would have seemed impolite not to. Was it out of place?"

“So long as it was just that. You’re a married man—as far as these humans are concerned.” Crowley finally turned to look at him. For all the angel’s face was usually as limpid as a stream, Crowley had no idea what he was feeling.

He thought, for just a moment, that he could reach out, and it would be all right. That this was the moment, and he could gather Aziraphale close and hold him tight and everything would be understood without words. He could almost feel what it would be like, that plump chest in the buttery cashmere, solid arms around him, fluffy hair tickling his nose. But what if he was wrong? There was too much to lose, so much more so than even a year ago, and he still believed his best chance was to convince Aziraphale to be the one to move closer. That was always the most successful approach, after all. Tempt, don’t force. Make it be his own choice.

Like spontaneous kisses goodnight on his lips and eyes.

He had been patient. Thousands of years to reach those kisses. He could outwait any humans. The feeling of urgency was just the result of what they had lately been through, those days when it seemed they had only hours to be together, but the future stretched long before them again. No reason to stuff it up by pleading with him to run away with him, or pressing too hard.

He turned away. “Get in the car, angel. We’re going home."

It was only as they pulled out that something twigged in his head. The party stank like sulphur. It hadn't been just a simile. Somewhere, under all the expensive cologne in the room and Azirphale's jasmine, there had been a whiff of the mixture of decay and sunshine on desert rocks that was brimstone. Of course, he carried a little of the stench around with himself, which made it hard to notice in the atmosphere, but he didn't go down Below all that much and this was... this was not just him. He was almost sure. 

He clenched his hands on the steering wheel.


	6. You know this is how it should be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale really isn't as concerned as Crowley about a possible demonic presence in the town. It's more important to figure out if kissing each other goodnight is going to become a tradition.

“You’re sure there was another demon there?"

Crowley’s brow was drawn. “I’m almost sure I smelled a diabolical presence that was not me. It could be human contact, I suppose, someone playing silly buggers with demon summoning. Didn’t you catch it? I thought angels could smell demons. You always seemed to be able to find me in a crowd."

Aziraphale sighed. “My dear, I don’t have your highly developed sense of smell, but there was a time when I could detect you or any demon a mile off by the brimstone. That hasn’t been true for at least eleven years. It’s become a sort of background noise. Well, scent. I’m afraid it’s seeped into everything I own. I’d probably miss it if I didn’t smell it for a while, that’s all."

“Ah.” Crowley’s mouth twitched, and Aziraphale wondered what he was thinking. “Well, that’s inconvenient.” He sighed. “Well, we can rule out Tristan. I was close to him long enough in that infernal game that I am pretty sure he is human. Just pure evil,” he added in a mutter.

“That’s not fair. He’s very kind and charming."

“He wears tartan, and plays party games."

“So do I."

“And you're the evilest being I know outside of Hell. Don’t think I’ve forgiven you yet."

“Do demons even forgive?” Aziraphale arched an eyebrow.

“Over and over, apparently. We’re just not supposed to.” Crowley pulled the Bentley up the drive and gave her a farewell pat on the steering wheel. Aziraphale was almost sure that if he wasn’t there, he would have wished her goodnight aloud.

“I suppose not. Forgiveness is divine, after all. Besides, I think tonight was rather a success,” Aziraphale said as he unlocked the front door. “I don’t think anyone would question we are a couple now. Although apparently you are whipped."

“_Angel_,” groaned Crowley. “I am going to hunt that prat down and destroy him. I will destroy his progeny unto the fifth generation, if he has any.” His cheeks were flaming.

“What does it mean, anyway?"

Crowley stared at him for a moment, flinging himself into, or rather onto, a chair, legs hooked over one arm. “Creamy and fluffy like whipped cream,” he said eventually. “Ridiculous. I mean, look at me.” He waved a hand at his tight black clothes.

“Ah. Well, that sounds rather lovely. I can see why a demon would see it as unbecoming, though.” Aziraphale seated himself rather more neatly in another chair.

“Aziraphale, do you have any idea at all how—“ Crowley bit the sentence off. “Never mind. Why would anyone doubt we are a couple, anyway? I mean, when you meet a married couple, ‘I wonder if they are just pretending because they are ancient adversaries posing as humans’ isn’t usually the _first_ thing that comes to mind."

“You think we were overdoing it?"

“No, no,” Crowley said quickly. “Just right."

“Good. Make me a cup of tea, dear?"

Crowley took off his glasses and stared at him with yellow eyes. “You know,” he said eventually, “Sometimes I really can’t tell if you are that innocent or if you are deliberately taking the piss."

“It’s only a cup of tea, my dear. You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Aziraphale said, a little hurt.

“I do _not_ trust you, you and your guileless expressions,” Crowley said, getting up and going into the kitchen. “And I’m doing this because I want to, and because I want tea too.” He waved his hand on the way, and the fire blazed up in the hearth.

Aziraphale settled happily into his cosy armchair. It was nice to have someone to make him tea for a change, and the cottage seemed less big with Crowley there. More like home.

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,” Crowley said at last, coming back to hand him a cup of tea. “Angel, _there was a presence of Hell there._ I know you’ve never been entirely sensible about seeing demons as a threat, or I wouldn’t be here, but we are not all like Dagon and me."

“Dagon?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I mean, with a soft spot for you personally."

Aziraphale beamed. “That’s rather sweet.” He breathed in the steam. For all his grumbling, Crowley knew exactly how he liked his tea brewed. “They were a dear back in the old days."

“There is _nothing_ sweet or dear about Dagon. You try missing filing a report by even a decade or so. See, that’s the problem. You need to take this _seriously_. The Rebellion wasn’t some minor misunderstanding that will all get sorted out someday when we all sit down and talk it over. Our sides are enemies."

“And yet, here we are. You’re the one who keeps telling me Hell isn’t an endless reservoir of evil."

“I am _trying to keep you safe_, you stupid angel!” The handle of the mug in Crowley’s hand cracked, and the sound split the tension. They both stared at it for a moment, then Crowley swore and the crack healed.

“My dear,” said Aziraphale gently, “I am entirely safe. I’ve been down here since the beginning. You don’t think you are the only demon I’ve encountered in all these thousands of years?"

The whites of Crowley’s eyes had almost vanished. “What? Who? Did they try to harm you? Or—"

“It doesn’t matter,” Aziraphale said quietly. He had no intention of setting Crowley off in some kind of protective rage that would get himself hurt or compromised. “No demon can enter any premises of mine without my knowledge and permission. I don’t sleep. I am as safe as it is possible to be, and I have no intention of being picked off by any demon who wants a commendation for taking out Earth’s oldest resident angel. Crowley, I have been doing this a _very_ long time."

“I’ve been in the book shop without you. Just yesterday."

“The wards aren’t set up to repel _you._” Aziraphale twinkled at him. Really, Crowley could be dense.

“Oh.” Crowley blinked. “Oh,” he said again.

“The main problem is that we can’t really claim to not know each other when we turned up hand in hand claiming to be married. I think we lost all deniable plausibility. But I also think making the Arrangement known would be a very, very bad mistake."

“So what do you think we do?” Crowley asked. He was still looking stunned.

Aziraphale shrugged. “My dear, when was the last time an angel Fell, if it isn’t a painful question?"

“More painful for you, I should think. Samyaza, Shamsiel and the other Watchers. About five thousand years ago, give or take. Uriel really went to town on them.” Crowley shivered.

“And the last time a Fallen angel was redeemed?"

“Never. Aziraphale, you aren’t trying to make me Ascend, are you? Because that won’t happen.” He glanced at his watch, and Aziraphale knew he was looking at the time in the 21st capital, somewhere else.

“As far as anyone from my side knows, I _might_ be trying to save you. A noble, if futile effort. After all, if a demon showed signs of, and please do not lose your temper, _good_, wouldn’t it be a splendid opportunity to show the power of good?"

Crowley’s eyes were almost entirely black and gold. “And I might be trying to make you Fall, is that what you’re saying?"

Aziraphale finished his tea, put it down, and folded his hands. “Precisely. I think it is abundantly clear to both our Sides that we have gone native and might be… open to recruitment. What is the interesting phrase you used? A real feather in our wings. The original Serpent and the Earth’s oldest guardian.” He smiled. “Friendship and love are routes to both temptation and redemption, are they not?"

“Friendship and… oh. Yes. Acting married.” Crowley looked dizzy. “I—I have to think it over."

“Of course. We keep the balance, remember."

Crowley stood up, crossed the room, and took Aziraphale’s head in his hands. His mouth came down and brushed Aziraphale’s mouth, then lingered on each eyelid. His lips were cool, dry and soft, like being brushed by silk, and the general ready steadying pulse of affection he had felt from Crowley since Eden, the feeling that had made him trust him despite himself, had one of the moments of swelling up almost frighteningly bright and golden. The remnants of angelic nature, the ability to love.

“I’m going to bed. Aziraphale…” Crowley remained standing over him, hands on either side of Aziraphale’s face and looking close down into it, looking searchingly into his eyes, as if asking a question.

Aziraphale returned the gaze steadily, trying not to give in the temptation to look away. If he showed discomfort at the new tendernesses, the new intimacies, they might stop. They both knew perfectly well that this was not a usual goodnight between friends in this time and place, and there was no longer the excuse of apologising for past distances for the kiss. If he rejected the surge of affection, then Crowley would damp it down and drawback, as he always had.

It was ridiculous, sitting in a twenty-first century living room, being kissed on the lips and eyes by a demon as if they were intimates in Ancient Rome. It was even more ridiculous, asking a demon to pose as his husband at human social events. It was ridiculous, rebelling against Heaven and Hell to bring up the Antichrist together. It was ridiculous, being allies with a demon in the first place.

In the scheme of things, wanting a demon to fondly kiss him goodnight every evening wasn’t all _that_ ridiculous at all.

“Sleep well, my dearest. You are safe here.” Aziraphale raised his hand and gently caressed the fingers on one side of his face. Then he slowly, deliberately raised his mouth to offer and receive a final kiss on the lips.

“So long as you keep yourself safe, too.” Crowley pulled his hands away and slouched up the stairs.

Aziraphale wondered if he should have told Crowley he knew quite well what the demonic presence in the town was, and that was partly why he had called him down. Of course, he had been quite truthful about the whole misunderstanding with Nell, but surely not even Crowley thought that was sufficient reason for such a ludicrous pretence.

Of course, Crowley never really needed much of a reason to deceive and cause chaos, and Aziraphale may have been relying on that a _tiny_ bit. You couldn’t be around humans for so long without picking up just a little ability to pick and choose the truth.

Besides. He was pretty sure Crowley was _enjoying_ playing at marriage. So perhaps it wasn’t all _that_ wicked to be enjoying it himself.

* * *

“It’s all right,” Crowley said comfortingly, as he spun the steering wheel in front of the bakery. “I mean, it was an out of date kitchen anyway. I can get it done up properly. You can have a totally bespoke one to your exact tastes. Little gold angel wings, tartan wallpaper, shelves of cookbooks."

“If there had been books in it and they had burned, I would never speak to you again."

“You don’t mean that. Anyway, I know what I did wrong."

“Watching videos on your phone on cooking perfect eggs _while the eggs are cooking,_ possibly."

“Be fair, I’m new to this whole perfect husband thing. I mean, look at literally every other demon husband in history, I don’t have a lot of positive role models, do I? Never any account of Asmodeus or Belphegor making breakfast. I’ll get there. At least I’m the best-looking husband in this town.” Crowley gave Aziraphale a sudden sidelong look. “Well, one of them."

Aziraphale felt his face heat, and he glanced away. “Don’t try to get away from it with flattery. You set my kitchen on fire."

“At least you remembered not to use holy water when you put it out."

“Believe me, I was tempted."

“Nasty,” Crowley said admiringly. “Come on, let’s get breakfast. We need to get home before my plants arrive. They will be stressed from the trip and need some encouragement to pull their bloody selves together."

“I hate to think.” Aziraphale realised they were sitting in the front seats of the Bentley, making no attempt to get out, looking half expectantly at each other, as if waiting for the other to lean in. There was no one on the street but them, and no reason to, but it felt as if--

He pecked Crowley on the cheek, then fumbled for the door handle.

“Yeah. Right. Okay,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale could feel the surge of affection floating around him as he headed for the bakery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) "This watch gave the time in twenty world capitals and in a capital city in Another Place, where it was always one time, and that was Too Late.” I love Crowley’s watch.
> 
> 2) Asmodeus is obviously not Gabriel in this continuity.


	7. My suspicions lead me to the lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Zira is my favourite customer. I feel like he turns everything we serve into poetry."
> 
> The table turned as one to Aziraphale, who was taking a first delicate bite into a buttery eccles cake shining with sugar crystals, and he opened his eyes wide, as if surprised by the attention. A crumb of pastry fell to his chin, and Crowley brushed it off with his thumb.
> 
> “Zira,” Crowley said, “_is_ poetry,” and then turned scarlet and stared hard at his plate. What the Heaven had possessed him to say that? Of course, Zira had been the muse to many a poet who had a sudden impulse to write about sunshine and the inherent goodness of the universe, but… seriously, a demon couldn’t go around saying things like that. It was so uncool as to be lukewarm.

The bakery was also Suffolk pink, with sweet little white shutters. He never should have ceded such a huge area to Aziraphale.

Crowley had been hoping that it would have little cosy intimate tables where he could watch Aziraphale eat brunch in peace. Instead there was only a big communal table. Like the Soho restaurant. It was almost as if Aziraphale was avoiding eating alone together. No, that was a stupid thought. They were _living_ alone together. Aziraphale just liked being around people—and good food.

It _was_ good food, better than Crowley expected in a tourist trap like this. There was a huge homemade marshmallow in Aziraphale’s hot chocolate, and the coffee was drinkable. Even not being alone couldn’t detract too much from the sheer pleasure of watching Aziraphale suck a half-melted marshmallow through his lips and then try to reduce it to a size that fit properly in his mouth, although it was harder to watch semi-discreetly when they were sitting side by side. Crowley drank his coffee and ate a salmon sandwich and watched Aziraphale devour french toast with maple syrup, bananas and bacon. It seemed like an utterly vile Americanised combination from where he was sitting, but watching Aziraphale swirl the bacon and sliced banana around in the syrup, eyes incandescent with anticipation, he put a note on his phone to learn how to make it.

Aziraphale knew everybody. Crowley allowed himself to be introduced around, not being able to remember which had been at the party last night. He looked suspiciously at them, trying not to stick his tongue out to test for brimstone. The roaring fire was confusing his sense a little.

He carefully guided Aziraphale to the end of the table and wedged himself between him and the other customers, hoping turning his back on them would create a kind of barrier. Aziraphale just smiled and leaned past him to talk to the brunchers and well, there was an expression in his face that was probably just acting, and it was silly to feel melted and nervous at Aziraphale’s apparent pride in saying “My husband, Anthony.” Of course, Crowley _was_ a catch. Anyone would be proud to be associated with him.

“Zira is my favourite customer,” said the owner, Max. “I feel like he turns everything we serve into poetry."

The table turned as one to Aziraphale, who was taking a first delicate bite into a buttery eccles cake shining with sugar crystals, and he opened his eyes wide, as if surprised by the attention. A crumb of pastry fell to his chin, and Crowley brushed it off with his thumb.

“Zira,” Crowley said, “_is_ poetry,” and then turned scarlet and stared hard at his plate. What the Heaven had possessed him to say that? Of course, Zira _had_ been the muse to many a poet who had a sudden impulse to write about sunshine and the inherent goodness of the universe, but… seriously, a demon couldn’t go around saying things like that. It was so uncool as to be lukewarm.

“Oh, you are _adorable_, Anthony,” said one of the ladies from the party last night. Lilith. He was almost sure she wasn’t a demon, despite the name. Crowley wished he could check the air. Anything rather than giving into the temptation to look at Aziraphale to see his reaction. There was less movement from beside him than there usually was when Aziraphale was eating, and Crowley’s overactive imagination populated his friend’s face with everything from outrage to starry-eyed blushing. “Isn’t Zira lucky to have a romantic husband like that, Tristan?"

Crowley had vaguely registered the shop bell ringing in the back of his head. To him old fashioned shop bells were mostly things that caused a Pavlovian response of “We’re closed!” from the angel, so he tended to shut them out. Now he looked up in horror to see Tristan and Nell, and that his masterful manoeuvring to get between Aziraphale and he earlier customers meant that one of the two only open seats was next to Aziraphale.

“Extremely lucky,” said Tristan drily, swinging into the empty seat, folded newspaper in hand. “Surprised he lets him escape to London all the time. Good to see you again, Anthony, hope your head is better.” He was smiling genially with his mouth and looking coldly at Crowley with his brown eyes, which softened as he turned to Aziraphale. “Morning, Zira. Just the person I wanted to see. I’m having trouble with 19 down."

“Hello, Anthony dear,” Nell said more pleasantly, kissing his cheek and then Aziraphale’s, and then circling the table in a kind of group embrace en route to the other empty seat, across from Crowley. He concentrated on the kiss, and...

Yes. That was it. Nell, the friendly lady who had invited him over for Christmas, was the one with contact with Hell. He stared at her, glad his eyes were concealed, but—yes. That was a deliberate flicker of a smirk. One quite different from the usual gracious smile on her comely face. There was a twinkle in her pale blue eyes that was not at all kindly.

One infernal denizen acknowledging another.

So that was that. The only question remaining was if she knew what Aziraphale was, or was just gently warning Crowley that this was her territory. Bad manners, to step into another demon’s area of influence. Perhaps she just wanted him to leave, and that would give him an excuse to get Aziraphale out of this blessed picture postcard of a place.

“I am so looking forward to you boys visiting over Christmas,” Nell said genially. “Swear to me you won’t back out."

A challenge, then. He flung back his head, adrenaline racing. “It’s a pact."

She smiled, her face sweet again, then flicked her eyes to Crowley’s right. Where--

—Aziraphale was bent over Tristan’s crossword, heads close together.

“Trip is gay soul, five letters—oh, the first part’s an anagram. Spirit,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley was almost sure Nell sniggered. She _must_ know about the angel, gay spirit was too perfect otherwise. "Oedipus did this to himself, and so did Narcissus? Seven letters."

“Desired,” Tristan breathed, and Crowley tasted fire in his mouth. "Holiday season lacks initial direction for plant?"

“Oh, that reminds me.” Crowley pushed himself up from the table, putting a firm hand around Aziraphale’s arm and pulling him awkwardly up too. “My houseplants are coming home for Christmas, and they will be arriving any minute. So nice seeing you all."

“Aster?” suggested Nell. “Oh, do invite me over to see the plants, Anthony. I haven’t seen your lovely home yet."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to invite her, and Crowley, panicking, dug his fingers into the angel’s arm before he could invite a demon across their threshold. “Some time soon,” Crowley said firmly. “I’m still settling my things in. But perhaps,” he added thoughtfully, “we could meet up for coffee some time soon. Just you and me. I’d like to get to know you better."

She smiled, and there was definitely a challenge in it. Just for a moment, she showed him teeth that were sharper than the human norm.

“I’m looking forward to it. Here, Tristan, let me have a go.” She reached across and read, “Returned friends makeup, four letters."

“Pals?” Crowley asked. After all, she had just warned him about Aziraphale and Tristan.

Nell grinned toothily. “That’s right. Pals."

Aziraphale didn’t kiss Tristan goodbye this time, maybe that was just a party thing, but he beamed fondly all around and gave promises to meet up again and Crowley had to half drag him out of the bakery, buying rhubarb donuts to placate him

Crowley fully expected to be reprimanded for his rudeness. It seemed Aziraphale took it for granted that he would be discourteous and never make it to the end of a social occasion, though, because when they were seated in the Bentley he just smiled fondly and patted Crowley’s knee.

“Thank you for making an effort to befriend Nell, dear."

“Nell,” said Crowley as the car screeched backwards into the middle of the road and then forwards, “is a bloody demon."

“She’s very pleasant."

“Literally a demon. And she recognises me as one, too."

The expected protest never came. Aziraphale was quiet. When Crowley checked on him, he was biting his lip and looking guilty.

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me.” Crowley spun the wheel and the Bentley came to a stop. “_Aziraphale._"

“Well, I did suspect a _little_. It’s not like I don’t spend a lot of time in an infernal presence. I miss it when it’s not there, I told you."

“Angel, how could you put yourself in danger like that?"

“I’m not entirely reckless. I have no intention of inviting her to the cottage. And—I invited you down here.” Aziraphale's eyelids shivered, looking down at his entwined hands. “To see what you thought, and if necessary to protect me."

“Don’t give me that rubbish,” said Crowley, ignoring the way the fluttering lashes made his own treacherous heart fluter. "You could have protected yourself by staying in London."

“But she knows about the bookshop, my dearest. If she suspects I’m an angel, she would have no trouble finding me. This way, she knows I’m in another demon’s sphere of interest."

“You manipulative bastard,” Crowley said, suddenly feeling very tired. “So she’s never even seen the picture on the mantlepiece."

“She saw it in my wallet. But I’ve never actually invited anyone back. It’s nice to have a sanctuary where I can be alone. No customers."

“Excuse me for invading your _sanctuary._"

“You’re different, Crowley, you know that.” Aziraphale’s hand was on his knee, giving it a quick squeeze. “You’ve earned the right to belong.” Crowley stared at the hand resting on his thigh, and swore under his breath, pulling the Bentley back onto the road.

He didn’t, however, knock it off.

The moving van pulled up just as they did—infernal timing. The plants seemed a little anxious and wilting from the trip, and in need of some good stern encouragement to stop being self indulgent and pull themselves together. Besides, Crowley really, really needed to yell at something, and it would probably be better if it was not his _husband_.

He raised a warning eyebrow at Aziraphale, who tended to hamper his style when plant parenting. The angel took the hint and wandered off into the garden, mug of tea in hand.

Crowley had also sent for his espresso machine, his television, his computer and his stereo to make his life buried in the country a bit more bearable. He was just self aware enough to realise that the rest of his furniture already looked slightly ridiculous in an industrial chic flat, and would make the angel snigger in this place. The _Mona Lisa_ cartoon was irrevocably associated with melted demons, and the only other things he had much affection for were his angel and demon sculpture, which was best saved for if he _really_ wanted to embarrass Aziraphale in front of company, and the eagle plinth, the memory of which he blushed at.

He settled into arranging his plants in the conservatory, letting them know what would happen if they didn’t perk up immediately. Plenty of nurseries around here to replace them, he reminded them, if they disappointed him. He gave them all a light spray to settle them and restore them a bit after their scolding, and felt satisfied. At home.

No. No, this could not possibly be home. He couldn’t be nesting in this camp atrocity of a pink house. The country was boring. Not that he’d been bored _yet_, but this was only his third day, and there was a demon lurking around and the whole thing with Aziraphale.

He hadn’t shared living quarters with Aziraphale since… When _had_ it been? The Kingdom of Aksum. Fourth century, he thought. Aziraphale had been sent to act like an actual Principality back then, tutoring the young prince and guiding him as a future ruler, while Crowley undermined as much as he could. It had been a bit of a dry run for failing to raise the Antichrist later on, except that when Crowley arrived in Ethiopia, the two of them had been mistaken for brothers due to their fair skin and had just gone with it, sharing quarters at the palace. It had been blissful torture, with Aziraphale wandering domestically and temptingly around their rooms. The low slung skirts and bare torsos in fashion at the time had suited him gloriously. Even now, eighteen centuries later, Crowley could remember with perfect clarity the way the plush layer of flesh over Aziraphale’s shoulder blades had looked under a faint lustre of perspiration, the squeezable softness of his waist and hips, the rounded calves over his bare feet. Twenty first century Aziraphale wore far too many layers.

But there had been no hand holding and tender kisses good night. Both he and Aziraphale had kissed human intimates three times on the cheek in greeting, but not each other, even though they were ostensibly brothers. Crowley had certainly never dared to reach for his lips.

Crowley curled up under his plants, bringing his knees in close to him, and shivered, thinking of the kisses on his eyes and mouth. Dangerous to let go of his righteous, well, unrighteous fury with the angel. Dangerous to let desire surge like that, and risk scaring the angel off again. But Aziraphale… Aziraphale hadn’t _had_ to kiss him good night, or at the party, either. Hadn’t had to kiss him just then outside the bakery. Surely, surely it wasn’t just reciprocal teasing that was making the angel so free with caresses. Surely Crowley wasn’t imagining that the tenderness and longing and just plain _joy_ at being together like this was mutual.

He was an idiot. This game was supposed to make _Aziraphale_ realise he couldn’t do without his demon, not send Crowley into desperate hopeful longing. He needed to figure out what Nell was doing and if Aziraphale was in danger. Then to focus on making himself so essential to Aziraphale that, when Crowley went back to London after Christmas, the angel would naturally come along and things would go back to normal. Anything else was a bonus.

His brain caught up suddenly. Aziraphale had a picture of him and the Bentley in his _wallet_? As in, carried around with him?

Where _was_ Aziraphale, thinking of that? Crowley hadn’t heard him come in, and it had been ages. Surely Aziraphale, knowing there was a demon on the loose, would not leave the cottage grounds alone.

He felt for the angel’s presence. He was nowhere nearby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Cryptic crossword clues stolen from anonymous comments on Quora plus a    
__   
Guardian   
  
article on Cryptic Crosswords for Beginners. If you’re as bad at them as me, here’s some hints—“slap” is makeup, Easter is a holiday, “Trip is” is an anagram for spirit, and Oedipus killed his sire.
> 
> 2) Yes, the presence of all that occult energy in the room changed the crossword clues.
> 
> 3) Sorry I've been a little slow (for me, at least) with updates, I've been trying to keep up with daily one-shots Ineffable Husbands Week plus working on fics for Iddy Iddy Bang Bang and the Good Omens Big Bang. Hope finding out the demon was worth the wait. (I think most of you had guessed it, in any case!)
> 
> 4) As usual, the bakery (and menu) are based on a real place, in Suffolk but not necessarily in the village I have mentally placed them in.
> 
> 5) Prompt fill was "betrayal", and the idea is that the crossword is betraying what is really going on. This is a clue to later chapters, too. ;)


	8. Confide in me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The denizens of the village declare their hands--to a certain extent. This should probably have been an Aziraphale chapter, but we're staying in the POV of the lovesick snake for this chapter.

Crowley checked the front garden, and there was no angel. Next was all the land behind, which presumably was part of Aziraphale’s marked-off ground. If Aziraphale was there, he was safe. Crowley made his way down a lane, long-dead leaves crunching under his feet. These bloody rhododendrons, even in late autumn there was no visibility.

No need to panic, Crowley told himself. The demon had revealed herself. That was fine.

Aziraphale, of all angels, was used to demons. Back in the old days, before everyone in Hell got so damn lazy—except for Crowley, of course, a hard worker and always had been, had he commendations to show for it—lower-ranking demons used to regularly take potshots at the sweet, dithering angel who had _easy target_ written on him in big runes. Most of them had ended up in ethereal restraints being earnestly told the error of their ways. Subjected to Aziraphale’s kind scolding that while of course tempting the humans was very important work and all the Almighty’s will, he couldn’t possibly allow them to disrupt his own business, most slunk back to Hell in cowed disgrace.

_Dis_grace, that was key. Demons had the advantage of sneakiness and brutality. Aziraphale, though, had learned sneakiness and imagination from humans, had centuries of reading works on demonology and illuminating chats with a demonic best friend, and on top of that, was in a state of Grace. Demons shouldn’t really have a chance against him.

Only a couple had required Crowley carefully discorporating them in ways that couldn’t cause any awkward questions.

Over the millennia, Aziraphale had stopped being seen as an easy target, and become somewhat of a legend. Earth’s oldest celestial resident, the one who kept even the infamous serpent Crowley in check, and was to all appearances invincible.

The problem was that a lot of that depended on the forces of Hell not knowing about the Arrangement. And that protection, Crowley suspected, was blown to bits. It shouldn’t take long to go from “They united to stop the Apocalypse together” to “Hey, how long had they been working together anyway?” to “Maybe he’s not so much invincible as compromised.” They had _known_ that, they had used it as an excuse to be more open in spending time together, and hadn’t thought about whether it made Aziraphale vulnerable.

Well, there were two ways it could go, assuming Nell didn’t intend to actually kill him, in which case she probably would have made a move by now. Aziraphale really wouldn’t like Falling. Nor would he like having his forgiving nature taken advantage of to punish Crowley for his betrayal.

Crowley cursed and picked up his pace as he moved down the garden, his tongue flickering out to taste the air over and over. And there—that scent was the clean, lovely, warm scent of Aziraphale.

And brimstone.

_Fuck._

He rounded the corner around some bushes, and saw Aziraphale sitting on a bench, book on his lap, chatting to Nell—who was in the lane on the fence on the other side. Not on the property. But of course, if wards were up, she would sense them.

She hailed him happily. “Afternoon, Anthony. I brought you a house warming gift.” She smiled at him, all pink and white and rounded middle-aged softness, which was a combination that might have softened him if she wasn’t a strange demon hanging around *his* angel. “A snake plant. I heard you like houseplants, and I thought it would suit you."

Crowley didn’t believe in coincidence, not with the occult. She was playing fair, at least. He reached out across the fence, and took it. “Thanks. It looks like it could do with a stricter upbringing. I’ll be sure to provide it."

“How pretty! That’s very kind of you,” Aziraphale said, beaming. He gave Crowley a look that said, _look, see, maybe you’re not the only nice demon around here._

“Oh, I never do things without ulterior motives.” Nell winked at him. “Anthony, did you realise your husband is a literal angel?"

He slid closer and dropped a protective arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, on pure instinct, although he trusted that she couldn’t come in. “It’s hardly something I could miss.” Better not to seem incompetent, at least. Maybe he could carry it off as some grand angel corrupting plan, he thought desperately.

“I look forward to seeing the two of you together a lot,” she said cheerfully. “I won’t ask to come in. I’m sure, after being separated so long, you’d like some alone time."

“I’ll see you soon, Nell,” Aziraphale said.

“I’m sure you will. I’m not giving up on our dates! Bring that handsome lad of yours next time.”

Crowley, who felt he was quite handsome but had never once in his existence looked like a lad, frowned at her and didn’t reply, as she went up the lane toward the village.

“A snake plant. Hardly subtle, but then she _is_ a demon, I suppose. What do you think she’s up to?” Aziraphale asked.

“Perhaps she’s just curious,” Crowley said, although he wasn’t sure. “She mustn’t get many angels settling in her village, and if she recognised me in the photo, well—she probably knows who we both are. And then she’ll _definitely_ be curious. We couldn’t expect to avoid detection forever.” He sighed. “Look, angel, I was planning to take you antiques shopping in Long Melford tomorrow anyway, and I have a list of restaurants to try out as long as your arm. Lots of places I can take you now we’ve got the Bentley. We’ll stay out of the way for a while, see if she makes a move."

“You were planning on taking me shopping and to dinner?” Aziraphale wriggled a bit, and Crowley realised he still had his arm over his shoulders and a crushing grip on one of them. He relaxed his grip, but left his arm, and sat beside him. It wasn’t _that_ different to all the times they had sat side by side on other benches, he reasoned, although his heart was suddenly hammering. It would be rude to drop the embrace too quickly.

“Well, I figured you must be bored out here with no transport,” Crowley said, trying to sound casual and not at all like he’d stayed up half the night looking for places to take Aziraphale that he would enjoy and realise how tremendously much fun spending every day with him was.

“That’s very—“ Aziraphale managed to tactfully bite back whatever he was about to say. “In the spirit of the Arrangement.” His gaze slid sideways to Crowley’s face, without moving his head, and then back, and then he turned towards him. Those eyes that could be all the shades of water in the world were grey like storm-tossed oceans right now and Crowley was intensely conscious of his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and how he could feel his warmth through his cardigan, and how close their faces were.

All he had to do was lean a little closer, tilt his head a little to the side, and their mouths would meet. It wasn’t as if Aziraphale wasn’t already kissing him goodnight, surely he would be amenable to a light, casual kiss to convey that his wordless thanks were accepted. And possibly, if Aziraphale cared to notice, it could also be conveyed that Aziraphale was adored beyond all measure, that he was the most gloriously sexy being in existence, that he had an almost as sexy demon doting on him, and there were no less than six beds upstairs and four couches downstairs, he could take his pick.

That might be trying to pack too much meaning into a peck on the lips, really. But Crowley was an optimist. Aziraphale nervously caught his lower lip in his own teeth, and Crowley sighed in anticipation, leaning in.

“How charming. Spooning like teenagers."

Only one person in the village could be enough of a bastard to interrupt at that moment. Crowley turned and glared at Tristan, who was watching them with a bland smile.

Aziraphale, blessedly, looked put out, and his greeting was very slightly less than effusive, which for Aziraphale was tantamount to telling Tristan to fuck off. Crowley desperately wanted to analyse Aziraphale's annoyance. He wondered if he could wave his hand and _send_ Tristan somewhere and get back to obsessively dissecting Aziraphale’s reactions and, hopefully, kissing.

It might make Aziraphale irate with him, though and that wasn’t the moment for this.

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt,” Tristan smiled, the light glinting off his smooth mahogany skin and making a stray white hair or two in his curls glimmer. “Although one day you will need to tell me how a black-hearted demon like you, Crowley, managed to win the heart of someone like Zira.” His tone was teasing, but the beautiful dark eyes were cold.

Crowley tried not to react visibly, and he could feel Aziraphale’s expression settle into the blank expression he used when he wasn’t sure of the situation. “Well, you know, bad boys have their appeal,” Crowley said and scrunched his nose.

“I’m afraid so. Well, I was only dropping by in passing. I have a housewarming gift for you, Anthony."

“Seems quite a day for that."

“Well. Whatever they tell you of country villages, here we like to make newcomers feel welcome. Zira could tell you that." Tristan stepped forward, through what Crowley presumed was the anti-demon barrier, without a flinch. “Here. It seems remarkably appropriate for you right at the moment.” He took a parcel, wrapped in black tissue paper and tied with a red bow, out of his lap and dropped it on Crowley’s lap. Then he waved at them both and strode off.

Crowley glared after him until he was out of sight, his arm tight around Aziraphale again.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Aziraphale asked at last.

It seemed a bit pathetic to say he couldn’t open it because that would involve moving his arm off Aziraphale's shoulders. Crowley blushed and let go, untying the ribbon, already having a bad feeling about the colour scheme. He felt like there would be terrible secrets in the box, some terrible trap.

“Just mini meringues?” he said, puzzled. “What, did he poison them or something?” They were pretty little things, sparkling with edible glitter, and seemed unlikely as a gift from Tristan to himself. Maybe for Aziraphale. Or maybe it was just a message of contempt, dismissing him as pretty and without substance. Or maybe Tristan liked to bake, of _course_ he would, the scurvy Aziraphale-bait that he was, and Crowley was just over analysing it. He lifted one to his mouth and flickered out his tongue to taste it.

“That’s one of their names.” Aziraphale’s face was creased with worry. “The other is angel kisses."

“Oh, fuck."

* * *

Crowley had insisted on going several towns over for dinner, just in case any Uber delivery drivers also turned out to be denizens of Hell or whatever in Existence Tristan was. He chose a hotel he had picked out as being the kind of place that would help Aziraphale relax, all crisp white tablecloths, flowers and French cuisine, with a roaring fire for himself. Time on his phone instead of sleeping well spent.

“Tristan's not a demon,” he said again, over the last bites of roast pheasant accompanied by a quite reasonable burgundy. “I _held his hand_ for that bloody game. I didn’t do it for fun, you know. He’s not a demon."

“I agree,” Aziraphale said. “or my own powers are _really_ slipping. My wards are intact, and he crossed them. I didn’t feel a thing."

“So what the Hell or otherwise is he?"

Aziraphale hesitated. “He could be a witch with actual magic powers. Haven’t known of any real ones around rather than people playing with crystals and essential oils for ages, but that young lady in Tadfield did have _some_ abilities, and so did Madam Tracey, however underexploited. Or he could possibly be an angel."

“How can you not be sure? Aren’t you supposed to feel waves of love emanating from fellow creatures of love, or something?” Crowley asked sourly. In his experience, Aziraphale wasn’t as good at that kind of thing as he pretended to be, unless there was some rule about demons.

Aziraphale blushed.

“Don’t tell me.” Crowley groaned and leaned his head in his hand.

“I may have mistaken it as something more personal than one angel’s natural goodwill for another."

“I can’t leave you alone at all, can I?"

“I don’t know what _that_ is supposed to mean, dear boy."

Crowley drained his glass and gestured for more. He could sulk and snark and glower, or he could remember how close they were getting, and try not to spoil it. All his instincts were for the first, but then he remembered soft warm lips on his eyelids and decided to try to act like an adult demon for once, not that there were any adolescent demons. “Well, I can’t blame Tristan. Very glad to hear my opinion backed by a competent authority,” he said, which was both a deliberate compliment and a moment of _look, I remember those stupid comic operas you dragged me to, see what a wonderful husband I am._

Aziraphale went from pink to scarlet, and pleasure and nervousness flickered across his face. Crowley smirked, proud of himself, and ordered him some chocolate terrine.

“So what are they up to, and are they a threat?"

Aziraphale fastidiously patted his lips in the way that tended to turn Crowley’s insides to melted ice cream. “Probably asking the same question about us. I mean, think about it. They’ve both been living here for at least twenty years—I gathered Nell at least claims to have a family that has always lived here, although Tristan mentioned his family being from the Caribbean. Here they are, all settled in a small village, and an angel moves in."

“And then so does his demon husband,” Crowley said slowly. “What are the chances?"

“If this isn’t a trap, then they’re probably far more frightened than we are,” Aziraphale said sympathetically. “What if they retired together? Our superiors already know we are on friendly terms, even if I hope they don’t understand the practicalities of the Arrangement. The poor things must be very nervous. We’re probably worrying about nothing."

“Nervous people are dangerous, angel,” said Crowley. “Nervous humans burn witches and perform exorcisms. Nervous immortal beings with access to things like holy water and hellfire… Anyway, I don’t buy it. There are hundreds of houses you could have bought. You just coincidentally moved into an occult hotspot?"

Aziraphale bridled. “I assure you I am not deceiving you. I had no ulterior motivations in moving here,” he said coldly.

Crowley sipped his drink to hide his mouth. “I trust you,” he said eventually, which seemed to work, because the clouds passed from Aziraphale’s eyes and they were suddenly as blue and gentle as a clear autumn sky. “I just don’t trust anyone else. Someone is playing funny buggers here, and it’s not me. Yet."

He made a sudden decision. “Angel, I’ve drunk too much.” He gulped down the rest of his glass to emphasise his point. “Couldn’t possibly drive home. The Bentley would disapprove so much she’d play _Killer Queen_ all the way home, and you know how I hate disappointing her."

“You could sober up."

“What, and scare the life out of the staff? No, I think we need to stay here for the night and only go back in the daytime when we’ve solidified our plans. They have rooms. Well, _a_ room,” said Crowley, who felt the night was getting better already and was going to personally make sure all the other rooms were booked out.

Aziraphale agreed with a lack of argument that made Crowley a bit suspicious. The room was a good room, Crowley thought, very Aziraphale. It was a little disappointing that there was a large leather armchair for Aziraphale to read in and no excuse to convince him to come read in the four-poster bed where accidental cuddles might happen, but at least he would be comfortable. And safe in the same room, where Crowley was ready to face down anyone who came for his angel.

He was feeling relatively relaxed until he checked out the bathroom, and found himself surrounded by eyes and mouths staring at him from every direction. Terror seized him. He also hyperventilated until he remembered he didn’t need to breathe and that he was not, actually, back in Heaven before the Fall, thank Lucifer.

He slammed the door behind himself and flung himself on the bed.

“Dearest, whatever’s wrong?"

The endearment cut through his shock a little, as did the hand rubbing small circles on his shoulder. He reached out and covered it with his own.

“Is this some kind of a trap? Who the fuck chooses wallpaper like that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) My wife assures me that the gavotte in the show is not just _any_ gavotte, it is the specific one from _The Gondoliers_, so I assume the Savoy Operas are Aziraphale’s cup of Darjeeling. I’d assume it anyway. And Crowley would at least have enjoyed the scandal caused by the lyrics of some of the songs in the Japanese Opera he references.
> 
> 2) It’s a real hotel in the Suffolk South Downs (are you surprised? I like to use real locations, menus etc to make sure my descriptions make sense), and yes, one of the bathrooms has terrifying wallpaper. It’s a fourteenth-century building, and I was flipping through the pictures with their open beams and fires and armchairs and tasteful cosiness, and I hit one of the bathrooms and was all _what the fuck is THAT?_ Followed by, wow, that seems custom-designed to give a fallen angel the heeby jeebies. EYES. SO MANY EYES.


	9. I lose it every time I'm close to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley nodded and relaxed, dignity restored, and opened his mouth to say something snarky that would dismiss the entire event and go back to normal, just like they always did when they accidentally touched on anything painful before the whole Antichrist thing, and—actually, f—_bother_ that.

Aziraphale managed not to laugh, mostly because Crowley really had suffered a shock, poor dear boy, and Aziraphale could imagine only too well what it had been like to be surrounded by angry angels in their less than human forms while being cast out, glared at with a million eyes.

Aziraphale didn’t like to think of the War in Heaven much himself; in retrospect it had been a relief that the Almighty had sensibly given neither side the ability to deliver killing blows to the other, hellfire not having been invented yet and holy water not working on even rebellious angels, but they _had_ known how to inflict pain. He was a soldier, of course, and casting his siblings down from Heaven with lightning had been all part of the job, which didn’t make it any nicer. All that eternal suffering when if everyone had been sensible and talked it over they could have come to some kind of agreement and been perfectly happy. Also, Prince Lucifer in dragon form had been somewhat alarming.

It must have been ineffably worse on the losing side.

He circled his fingers on Crowley’s back until the demon’s breath and heartbeat slowed, then went to inspect the bathroom. The vintage facial parts collage was hideous, and all those disembodied eyes must have been been dreadful out of the blue, but it was tacky more than anything. He knew that if Crowley looked again, he would feel silly. He closed the door and went back to the bed.

Crowley was sitting up and lounging in a theatrically nonchalant way that suggested he was profoundly embarrassed, glasses back on his eyes.

“That wallpaper,” said Aziraphale, “shows a severe lack of taste. I’m glad I don’t actually have to use a human loo, because that would be disturbing."

Crowley nodded and relaxed, dignity restored, and opened his mouth to say something snarky that would dismiss the entire event and go back to normal, just like they always did when they accidentally touched on anything painful before the whole Antichrist thing, and—actually, f—_bother_ that.

Aziraphale sat beside Crowley, put an arm around his waist, and said, “Whether you want to talk or not, I’m here."

Crowley croaked, and then tried speech again. “What has got into you, angel? You are actually trying to destroy me with sweetness, is that it?"

“I didn’t mean to cramp your demonic style,” Aziraphale said coldly. He was about to get up, but an arm snaked around his chest and a face was pressed against his shoulder.

“Don’t. Move."

“I won’t,” he managed to say, and let his other arm drift around a thin back. “Not unless you want me to."

“I don’t want to talk about those days. It was bad, but I didn’t think about the consequences and I stuffed up, and anyway I fit into Heaven even less well than you do. Don’t want to be an angel, don’t want to be mortal, demon is the most fun option. I want—“ Crowley’s voice croaked again, and started again more hoarsely, "to talk about _this_. Because in six thousand years, this has never happened. We’ve both been upset plenty of times, and _this_,” his other arm came around Aziraphale’s back and light fingers traced shapes at the base of his spine in a way that sent melting sensations through Aziraphale that seemed completely out of proportion with the actual touch, “has never once happened."

“It never would have seemed—“ Safe. Heaven would be miffed. Hell would punish. Crowley would angrily reject any sign of tenderness and _niceness_ and crush Aziraphale’s soul to pulp. “Proper. But we don’t really know what the rules are any more, and—well. This is nice.” And he’d said it, the dangerous word.

“Nice,” Crowley said, with bitterness, and Aziraphale felt regret and began to edge away again. The arms around him tightened. “You said you wouldn’t move unless I wanted you to, angel.” There was an urgency in his voice that made Aziraphale shiver. “I don’t want you to move,” he added carefully. “It’s—_nice_.” He got the word out with difficulty. “But it’s not us. We don’t hug. Except apparently now we do."

“No much sense pretending we don’t know each other any more after Tadfield, is it?"

“Is that all that’s changed, angel?”

Sometimes, very rarely, Crowley could sound both vulnerable and caressing and that was, Aziraphale knew, when he could be at his most dangerous. A snarling Crowley or a sarcastic one was a safe one, a Crowley it was possible to remember was the Enemy. There were other tones that signalled danger. When Crowley sounded reasonable or pleading or cajoling, the was when Aziraphale had been tempted into crossing lines over and over and over: just talk to this fiend, just let his questions enter your head, just agree not to get in each other’s way, just have lunch, just some drinks, just talk more about this thing you said you wouldn’t talk about, just look after this kid. Just let your loyalties drift a little more away from Heaven, towards this dear boy who seems to understand you so much better than your own side and who enjoys Earthly life as much as you do. Aziraphale was aware he was bad at resisting that tone, and in the guilty corners of his soul aware that most of the time he didn’t even want to. But at least he was aware that it went with fiendish temptation.

Then there was this voice. This voice seemed incapable of belonging to anyone evil, and even if Aziraphale tried to remind himself that a demon was by definition evil and harmful, there was the treacherous whisper _except to me. He’d never harm me. He cares about me, and I’m the one who could harm **him**_, _he is so alone, and no one truly cares for him but me._ The whisper in his head that said _We’re all God’s creatures, even if some of us lost our way, and creatures capable of love, and Crowley…_

The whisper in his head that spoke of yearning, that usually spoke only when alone.

Crowley released the arm around Aziraphale’s chest, and Aziraphale felt a miserable combination of disappointment and relief until he realised Crowley was removing his glasses again, which also felt like a danger sign. There it was, liquid yellow eyes looking into his and mouth gentle around the corners as Crowley shifted on the bed to face him, arm still around his back, half on his lap. Aziraphale had promised not to move. The weight of his promise felt--

It felt like a six-foot snake coiled around his shoulders, that he really didn’t want to push off, even if he could, because the weight and feeling of being surrounded felt wonderful.

Crowley laid a hand on the side of Aziraphale’s face and it would be easy, so easy, to close his eyes and lean into it and _trust_.

“We’re pretending to be married. That’s the agreement."

It had the intended effect. The liquid eyes hardened, spat fire and venom. But only for a moment. Crowley took a deep breath, and his expression softened again. The hand on Aziraphale’s cheek slid around to the nape of his neck.

“Do you think I’d agree to that only to save you from embarrassment, angel? You trust me too much, for all your protestations.” There was no hint of a mocking smile, only a searching expression, trying to read his own as Aziraphale sat stiffly but remained in the embrace. “Does the ruse require that when we are alone, we kiss goodnight?"

“I thought you understood. It was to make up for--"

“We have a lot to make up for, angel. But tell me,” and now his voice was light and teasing and _tempting_ again, which was oddly disappointing, as if Crowley had withdrawn somehow despite their proximity. “Are you having as much fun as I am?"

The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth lifted despite itself, as he thought of dragging a sulky demon around to glower his way through parties and crossword brunches, and the Almighty help him, a chuckle made its way up through his chest and throat and out his mouth. “You mean, do I enjoy having a whipped cream demon?"

“Good thing I can’t imagine being married to anyone who isn’t a bastard."

“Good thing I like whipped cream,” managed Aziraphale.

“I am neither sweet nor soft—but rich, I’ll give you that. I need to be, to keep up with your extravagances. I hope the humans realise you are a kept man."

Aziraphale couldn’t risk saying that Crowley seemed both sweet and soft right now. Instead, he said, “Nonsense. Heaven pays well, and my investments make plenty of money."

“Despite the bookshop."

“Well, yes."

"Aziraphale,” and Crowley's voice was dangerous in a different way now, low and throaty. His eyelids were heavy over his eyes, his pupils dilating to fill the yellow, less human by the heartbeat. “That was almost the right question. Do you, my most angelic angel, enjoy pretending to have a demon?” A deep breath. Aziraphale could feel the exhalation on his lips. “Do you _want_ to have a demon?” Fingers curled into the nape of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Ah.” He swallowed hard. “That’s a complicated question."

“It doesn’t have to be.” Finally lips on his own, cool and gentle, not pushing, not demanding, tender and affectionate. Aziraphale closed his eyes, and felt the lips move to each eyelid, soft and tender, and maybe with the faintest flicker of a snakelike tongue. Then the tantalising tickle of lips as Crowley quoted, going from one eye to another, “_If I could play at kissing your honeyed eyes as often as I wish to, three hundred thousand games would not exhaust me._”

It hardly felt real, it felt like an embarrassing shameful fantasy on a lonely night that would need to be repressed firmly down to avoid embarrassment later on, too sweet to be real. “Oh, angel, I ask you again, do you want to have me?” Crowley leaned his forehead against his. “Tell me this is okay. Tell me to stop, or to keep going, or to slow down, just _tell_ me."

Crowley’s phone began to ring to the tune of the _Danse Macabre_, making Aziraphale jump. Crowley didn’t move. “Ignore it. No one important has that number but you, and if you were calling it would be playing—something else."

Aziraphale took a deep, shuddering breath.

“I know you’re there, you swish snake.” The voice was tinny through the phone speaker. "Pick up, or I’m coming to get you."

Crowley said obscene words in several ancient languages, finishing with a very English “Fucking _wanker_,” slid off Aziraphale’s lap and picked up his phone.

“Hey, Dagon, what can I do for you?” His voice was back to a lazy drawl. “What? Oh, Hail Satan. Yeah, you know me, hardest worker on the books. Which vice? Tempting to lust right now.” He winked at Aziraphale, and it was like a bucket of dead fish had just been emptied over the angel’s head. “Yeah, right, I know I haven’t been reporting in, but—tomorrow. All right. Full report tomorrow. I’ll email an account of my activities."

He put down the phone and turned back to Aziraphale. “Now, angel, where were we?"

“Did you really have to explain to me that it wasn’t _me_ on the phone because of the ring tone?"

Crowley blinked. “That’s what you want to talk about?"

“No, perhaps we should talk about the vices you are reporting in. What did you say at Tristan’s? You were thinking of going in more for _luxuria_ and _fornicatio_ these days?”

“Aziraphale for—for—“ Crowley ran his hand through his hair. “Do you really think that is what this is about?” He spread his arms wide by his side, pleading. “_Angel._"

“No, I don’t,” Aziraphale said in a small voice. “But we need to think about that anyway."

“Because you’re afraid—"

“Because Nell is a demon, and Tristan might be an angel.” Aziraphale sighed, trying to organise his thoughts, which was hard, because he was still aching, because and Crowley’s eyes were still gold and dilated and his expression looked _desperate_. “If they are still trying to figure out what our game is, well, you’re probably all right as long as you don’t admit to any, well—“ He wanted to say _love_, was afraid to presume. “Softer affections. If it’s me, though, if it might go to my superiors, isn’t it better if when Tristan asks a certain question, I will be able to say no?"

Crowley shifted his weight from foot to foot, giving the impression that he wanted to circle, and was thwarted by furniture. “I suppose we couldn’t just say we’re married so it's okay? I suppose we couldn’t just—“ He bit down on whatever he was going to say. “I fucking hate Tristan. I mean, though, would he care? He’s the fruitiest angel I’ve met bar you, and I’ve met some fruity angels."

“_He knows you’re a demon._"

“It always comes back to that. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.” Crowley flung himself on the bed, hands clutching his temples. “All right. We find a cover story, we figure out what the Heaven and Hell those two are doing, we neutralise them."

“Nothing violent, my dear."

“There’s more to demonic schemes than violence, angel,” Crowley said darkly. “Just tell me one thing. If FIshbreath hadn’t picked that moment to call, would you have said yes?” He stared at the ceiling, as if afraid to make eye contact.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said honestly, his heart aching.

Unexpectedly, Crowley grinned. “Well, that’s further than I expected to get even a year ago. I’ll take it.” He reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand, kissed the back of it. “I suppose I can’t tempt you to share the bed chastely?"

“I don’t think that would be the best idea."

“Probably not.” Crowley rolled over to look at him, and where Aziraphale expected resentment and anger, there was warmth and a fond smile. “At least kiss me goodnight."

Aziraphale leaned over and carefully kissed him, lips, eye, eye, lips, and then got up. “Goodnight, dearest,” he said, and took his place in the chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) From Castellus’ poem 48, to the youth Juventius. I'm sure in my head that at some point after the oyster dinner Crowley was drunkenly reciting Castellus' nicer--and possibly most bitter--poems to Lesbia and Juventius to Aziraphale, who was failing to get the point. Or at least pretending not to get the point. Okay, totally writing that at some point.
> 
> 2) So that was a lot of pining and not a lot of plot or humour. Back to regularly scheduled shenanigans next chapter.


	10. Even if it throws you to the fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a breakthrough. Also, there is Ancient Roman love poetry.

A room with just one bed had seemed like a fantastic idea in Crowley’s optimistic head.

Lots of forced propinquity. The chance to wander around wearing nothing but clinging silk pyjama parts falling beguilingly down over his hips, because really, what was the point of being a demon if he couldn’t pull a few cheap tricks. He’d tried it in the cottage, The chance to find out if Aziraphale undressed at night or just removed his new cardigan and loosened his sleeves and undid his top shirt buttons and what the _hell_ was wrong with Crowley, he’d seen the angel bathing naked, why did the thought of unbuttoned cuffs make his blood pound in his ears? And _that_ was no good because now he was remembering he had been speculating on the chances of wandering in for a chat while Aziraphale was in the bath, or Aziraphale coming to find him in the shower. Unfortunately, there was no way he was going in that _nightmare_ room again.

The point was. The point _was._ The point was that it seemed an ideal way to keep putting into Aziraphale’s head that now Heaven and Hell knew they were on friendly terms their relationship had certain _possibilities._

It wasn’t supposed to encourage Crowley to jump the gun and end up laying it all out for Aziraphale and getting—not rejected. That would have been a clean blow. _I don’t know._ Yes, that was good, Crowley was hopeful, he was happy, he was closer than he had ever been, and that was the whole bloody problem. Because now he was in bed, and Aziraphale wasn’t, and Aziraphale was _there_ and he was _existing_ and _breathing_ and turning pages like the tormentor he was, reminding Crowley that he was just over there, and the kisses on his lips and eyes were still burning and God Crowley really had straightforwardly offered himself up for the taking there, hadn’t he? _Do you want to have me_?

He was going to discorporate from embarrassment. He was going to discorporate from _wanting_. He was going to discorporate from embarrassment from wanting because he couldn’t even escape to the bathroom for a bit because _urgh._ It might settle him down, but at what a cost? Anyway, he wasn’t going to _sleep._ Not when all he had to do was look up, and Aziraphale would be bathed in golden light from his lamp like the unfair bastard he was.

“What are you reading, angel? I know you didn’t bring a book. Although I suppose you don’t consider books a frivolous use of miracles."

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I keeping you awake?"

_Yes._ “Nah, it’s fine. I just hoped you would bore me to sleep. Read to me?"

“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t like it,” Aziraphale said, with hasty suddenness.

“Oh _really_.” He wouldn’t be a snake if he couldn’t sniff blood in the water. Or was that crocodiles? Anyway. “Don’t tell me you’re reading theology at me, because that would be a breach of the Arrangement."

“No, it’s not religious."

“Well? I could come over there and look. What is it? Something racy?"

“Poetry,” Aziraphale said, as if he was admitting to the worst kind of perverted pornography.

“Well, that’s good, it will bore me quicker—wait.” Crowley sat up, blankets sliding off his bare chest. “Angel, if you’re reading poetry some besotted human wrote about you, then I am putting in a complaint. You’re _my_ husband for the interim, and that’s emotional adultery, and I’m telling Michael on you."

“No, of course not!” Aziraphale seemed even more flustered, but truthful.

“Well?"

“Catullus. Only you quoted him, and I remembered something."

Oh, heaven, what was he remembering? Crowley spent thousands of years hoping Aziraphale had been too in his cups at the time to remember a demon head lolling over his shoulder as he sentimentally slurred poetry at him. Especially he had hoped that Aziraphale hadn’t remembered him confessing that he had helped to write some of it, good old party animal Gaius was never above getting Clodia, Licinius and anyone else around to “just give me a hand with this bit, my lovely”. Crowley had been inebriated enough to hope Aziraphale would connect the dots between demon, poem and angel and those bloody vile oysters they had both been eating would do their job.

Now… now, maybe he did want Aziraphale to remember. Maybe he had always remembered Crowley hanging around his neck and declaiming "Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then yet another thousand more, then another hundred,” and had hugged the memory to him when alone and _wanted_ him...

Unless Aziraphale was on one of the “choke on my dick and die” verses, in which case yes, Crowley had helped quite a lot with the composition, but might not have the desired effect. Had been great at sewing discord and sin among the literati of the late Roman Republic, yes, but not the kinds of sin Crowley currently had in mind.

Although actually, it might be fun to have Aziraphale read him one of those after all. Especially 16. That pure celestial mouth forming those nasty, obscene words.

None of this was helping his more physical problem. He sank back under the covers.

Bloody Dagon. If Dagon hadn’t had such literally infernal timing. He was as bad as Tristan.

Oh, Satan.

“You know,” Crowley said carefully, “Dagon is a bit of a sadist."

“Well, that’s not surprising, is it? They _are_ a demon."

“M'not a sadist,” Crowley said hastily, in case Aziraphale was put off. “I can be very—"

“My dear, I’ve seen you set up those gachapon machines so that children think they are getting two toys at once, and then they both get stuck in the machine.”

Crowley sniggered, and Aziraphale gave him a reproachful look. “Oh, come on. It’s very effective. Their parents spend like half an hour trying to get them out and then have to buy them expensive toys instead and resentment and discord is spread all around. Anyway, the point is not demonic traits in general. The point is that my piscine line manager _loves_ to see people squirm. In particular, they like to see _snakes_ squirm.”

“Then you’d better get to work on your email in the morning,” Aziraphale said.

“Nah, doesn’t matter, I’ll just take credit for Brexit or something. My point is, if I popped Downstairs, do you think I would find my beloved manager among their adored paperwork, or not?"

Aziraphale did not look surprised. Aziraphale was biting his lip and casting his pretty gaze around the room as if he was trying to look anywhere but at Crowley, and—

“You _bastard._"

Aziraphale raised defensive hands. “I wasn’t sure! She seems familiar, but it’s been more than six thousand years since we were intimate. I’m still not sure!"

“You utter _git_.” And what the heaven did he mean by _intimate_?

“Well, I didn’t want to cause any upset or hurt feelings, it’s not a nice thing to accuse a charming human of being a demon, and after all everyone in the village thinks she’s lived there forever. And she is such pleasant company. I thought surely _you_ would recognise if she was Dagon,” he added a bit witheringly. “I hoped you would put my mind at ease."

“I _bet_ you found him charming—what, _she_?"

“Nell, of course. Who else would you mean? When she saw your picture, she was suspiciously keen to see you, and I hoped she could be reassured you were up to no good even if we were, you know. Involved.” Aziraphale blushed. “Corrupting me or something."

“I meant Tristan!"

“Tristan?” Aziraphale blinked. “Why Tristan? I thought you’d decided he was an angel."

“Because he’s a fucking sadist!"

“I _don’t_ think so, dear,” Aziraphale said reprovingly. “I’ve rarely met anyone so kind and concerned to make sure everyone is happy and enjoying themselves."

Crowley spluttered. Between jealousy and—oh, Satan. He _couldn’t_ be jealous of _Dagon_. If he was, then Hell hadn’t been so forgiving after all, and this was his own personal torture. Being forced to play party games. Having crossword brunches. Having Dagon of all people manifest in a corporation that seemed custom-designed to appeal to Aziraphale. Being allowed to get so close to Aziraphale himself and then be thwarted at the last minute. Being—oh, fuck, if he was right, then Dagon was _watching them when they were alone together._ The perverted _fish_. Crowley approved of perversion on general principles, but not when it involved his most secret desires and his angel.

And… oh, Satan. If he did get closer to one of his most specific desires, it wouldn’t be the _first_ time in history Dagon had brought about a plague of haemorrhoids, and knowing that bastard their timing would be infernally _perfect._

He cursed repeatedly under his breath, and Aziraphale looked affronted. “Really, dear, I don’t criticise _your_ friends."

“_What_ friends?"

Aziraphale looked pointedly at the book in his hands.

“Gaius has been dead for two millennia! Anyway, he wasn’t a _friend_. I don’t do friends. Except you.” Aziraphale gave him a look of startled, pitying tenderness, and he cleared his throat. “Look, I don’t go around looking at everyone like they are the most wonderful thing on earth like you do and making them attach to me, that’s all. I like humans, they can be good company, but it's work. And if you mention the bloody Arrangement, I will throw a pillow at you. You’re not work."

Aziraphale looked down, shy and pleased, and _how_ could he look so shy when Crowley had been practically climbing on his lap and begging for kisses and more just a little while ago? And how could he look so infernally irresistible while doing so? It couldn’t possibly be a mystery to him that Crowley adored him at this point.

“Look, angel, we need to sort this out. Because if either is Dagon, I might be in serious trouble. I don’t trust them at all. Not to mention whatever the other one is."

Aziraphale lit up like a candle. “You’re assuming ill intent. What if they want to make sure I don’t hurt you?"

“_What_? Angel, I know you’re intelligent. I just don’t know how that thought came out of an intelligent brain. Dagon is an Underduke of Hell."

“And you’re a… ah..."

“Count,” Crowley said, with some difficulty. Being a Count was an embarrassment. It was like the participation prize of “We won’t actually feed you to the hell hounds over and over for giggles, but all the cool titles are taken.” At least he wasn’t a Baron.

“And you’re… well…” He could see Aziraphale searching for some compliment that wouldn’t get him pinned against a wall, which was a shame, considering.

“I’m as much of a misfit Downstairs as you are Upstairs. Dagon is not. They love their pitchfork. You should _see_ the forms I have to fill in sometimes."

Aziraphale shuddered sympathetically. “It’s partly your fault for sending them all those computer manuals,” he said, without any cattiness to his voice. “Dearest, don’t get into a state. I’ll figure out a way for the four of us to get together and talk it all out and get to know each other. Something _fun_."

“No.” Aziraphale just beamed at him, while Crowley fought the effect of the smile and the _dearest_ to focus on his fear. “Angel, my sweet darling angel, whatever you are planning, _no_."

“Nothing terrible. Just a nice cosy get together.” Aziraphale’s smile became dreamy. “How do you feel about Monopoly?"

“I feel—“ Crowley, panicked, sought for inspiration and found it. “I find that it’s an excellent training ground for developing ruthless adherence to capitalism, and also fostering hatred, resentment and feelings of inadequacy that manifest themselves in the pollution of sin."

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, looking so disappointed Crowley would have yielded over practically anything other than Monopoly. “Well, maybe another kind of game. I know several fun ones we used to play in our club back in—"

“Just to be straight with you, I’m not playing sex games with Tristan and Nell."

“Crowley, _really._"

“I just want to make my position perfectly clear. And nothing with ‘innocent' hand hold-holding or lap-sitting. If you suggest _Squeak, Piggy Squeak_ or _Birdies in a Row_, I’m moving to Australia."

“I’m sure I can do better than that. After all,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, “isn’t the point of these games to make you reveal things that would otherwise go unsaid?"

“You are terrifying sometimes, you know that?” Crowley said, but he knew he would give in. He settled into bed, feeling sleepy at last. “Angel?” he asked through a yawn.

“Mm?"

“That awful party game. Did you change the questions?"

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hummed noncommittally.

Crowley hid a grin in the pillow. So Aziraphale had really taken the chance to tell him that he’d remembered him from Heaven. That was… that made his bones turn to honey, actually. “So, you were trying to draw me out on what a good, vice-filled demon I was, just in case I was in front of my boss."

“Possibly.” Crowley could hear the smile in his voice. _Angel._ ”Do you still want me to read to you?"

“‘es."

He listened to the melodious voice, reading old love poems, old boasts, old threats, as sleep drifted warmly over him. And then, of course, it was inevitable, his own words written after a night of drinking and talking with Aziraphale. His own raw feelings spoken in Aziraphale’s voice, and in his dreamy state it sounded like it was Aziraphale’s own longing and mingled happiness and pain infusing the angel’s voice.

> Giving back mutual words through joke and wine.  
And from there inflamed I have gone away from your pleasantness and clever talks,  
and as a result neither food helps my misery nor sleep quietly covers my eyes,  
but untamed I as a result might turn with total fury,  
desiring to see the light,  
so that I might speak with you at the same time I might be with you.  
But afterwards the half-dead limbs tired by labor were lying on a small couch,  
delightful jewel, I make this poem for you,  
from which you clearly see my grief.

“Oh, I love you,” Crowley said drowsily, too far asleep to edit himself.

There was a creak of a chair, and soft padded footsteps, weight on the bed next to him, and his head tenderly lifted and settled next to a soft warm thigh as fingers carded through his hair. “Sleep well, you darling ridiculous demon. I love you too,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley, wrapping an arm around the thigh and slipping into sleep, wished he could stop time and stay in this moment forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The mythological Dagon really did bring about a plague of mice and haemorrhoids, because the universe keeps handing me fanfic gifts. I am unsure on whether Dagon caused it or it was done by the Abrahamic God as a punishment for trying to give the Ark of the Covenant to them, but either way...
> 
> 2) Quotes are from Gaius Valerius Catullus's Carmen 15 and 50. If you’re looking for less lovesick yearning and more "choke on a dick and die", I suggest 16 and 21.
> 
> 3) I apologise for the slow updates, but—hey, they said it!


	11. We're becoming more than friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to take the battle to the enemy. By double dating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha I posted this half asleep and no betas, we fall like Crowley. Sorry. Correcting now.

Crowley was surrounded by the smell of Aziraphale, ozone and fresh rain and good booze, paper and expensive cologne, the tantalising hint of incense. Warm and clean all at once. What had he been dreaming of, to wake with the scent in his senses? Not that he didn’t have an idea. He hugged the pillow under his head closer and dropped happily into one of his favourite fantasies, hissing softly.

The pillow was warm and more resistant to squeezing than he remembered. He dug his fingers in. Had he bought a heated pillow? And the scent wasn’t just in his imagination, he could taste it on his flickering tongue.

He woke up properly. His face was pressed against a soft hip, and--

“Sssorry angel.” He let go of Aziraphale’s thigh and pushed himself back across the bed, mortified.

“Good morning, dear boy."

“I was dreaming,” Crowley said awkwardly.

“Yes, I could tell."

“Oh, great. _Don’t look down._” He banished the problem with what he thought of as the cold shower miracle.

Aziraphale twinkled at him, looking up again. “Your eye teeth are out. Does that always happen when you are, ah...?"

Crowley hastily retracted them. “I don’t know, it’s not as if I watch myself,” he said, which was at least partially a lie. Aziraphale had possibly been right about _vanagloria_, but Crowley was relatively sure he could back it up; he had mirrors, after all. “Keep my teeth in with humans. And don’t worry,” he added hastily, in case Aziraphale would be put off, “I never inject venom unless I mean to, I won’t accidentally poison you or anything."

“I've never been afraid you’d harm me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, the twinkle becoming something almost tropical in its sunshine.

Crowley turned even redder and tried to get the conversation on more normal terms. “If we’re going to share beds, we’ll have to get you some actual nightwear. Unless you prefer to sleep nude,” he added hopefully and a bit masochistically.

Aziraphale’s glow dimmed. “I’m afraid my clothes are rather wrinkled from sleeping.” He sent Crowley a tragic look.

Ah, so it was to be this game. Crowley held his hand an inch away from the angel and traced his shape caressingly through the air, leaving clothes fresh and unwrinkled in his gesture's wake. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered with delight, and Crowley felt ridiculously like some kind of rescuing hero.

“I’m buying you a nightshirt,” he said, gruffly. “It can be tartan if you like."

“Oh, good. So between us, we’ll have one full set of pyjamas.” Aziraphale flicked his gaze momentarily to Crowley’s chest in a way the demon profoundly hoped showed some non-angelic signs of _luxuria_.

“It’s a crime to cover those legs up, angel. I’ll have you wearing shorts this July, just wait and see."

“I really don’t think so,” Aziraphale said, so primly that Crowley laughed and hugged him.

“Where did that come from?” Aziraphale asked, sounding pleased. He wrapped his arms around Crowley’s bare back, and the angel's hands on Crowley's skin were like summer themselves.

“Well, hugging is apparently something we do now.” Crowley nuzzled into his neck. “Be warned. I’ve never really had the chance to explore this idea, but I suspect that once given leave and the right angel, I’m a cuddler. Probably a snake thing."

“How terrible.” Aziraphale didn’t sound worried. One hand came up to rub Crowley’s shoulder. "We should make plans, beloved."

_Beloved, beloved, beloved._ Crowley took a few moments to fight through the sudden pink fog in his head. “Not here. Aziraphale, your wards will prevent demonic spying?"

“Of course."

“Then why did Nell—"

“She was probably going to call to be invited in."

"Hnuh."

“I’m not stupid, Crowley. I wouldn't have invited her. Come on, dear. Let’s go home."

Not home, Crowley reminded himself, despite the pink fog becoming worse at the idea of a shared home. He was set on returning to London, and he knew the angel well enough to be sure that seclusion in the country would pall sooner or later. But Crowley's flat was not remotely home, either. The trick, he decided, was to work out a way to make a home in London, which involved Aziraphale living with him.

The embrace and _beloved_ and _home_ and Aziraphale saying to the receptionist “My husband and I were very comfortable, thank you,” made it hard to remember how to walk. He sank into a chair as the young woman said, “I’m glad you enjoyed the Bastille."

“The--"

“The room,” she smiled. “Your husband particularly requested the Bastille Room."

“He did, did he?” Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow at Crowley, who grinned and winked.

As they started up the Bentley, Crowley said, “I should plan to get us locked up together in the Bastille more often. Happy memories."

“I don’t find the memory of all that murder and blood remotely happy."

“You loved being swept off your feet and rescued, though."

“I loved that you cared enough to come rescue me. I worried about you facing the consequences, though. Precious old serpent.“

Crowley filed _precious old serpent_ away in his secret box of treasures in his own memories.

* * *

“_Not_ in public. There’s no way to get anywhere with an interrogation in public."

“*We are getting to know each other and hopefully learn to understand each other, my dear. Negotiation at worst. Decidedly not interrogation. Besides, I don’t want to get any humans involved and out them at risk."

“What, if the parlour games get too frisky?” Crowley demanded, a little impatient at Aziraphale’s refusal to admit there was any danger. "Well, they can’t come _here_, we’ll compromise your wards."

“Agreed,” Aziraphale sighed. “Perhaps one of them will host us."

“_No_. I’m not knowingly stepping onto enemy territory again."

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “I think we were intending to motor up to London this morning to stay overnight and see a matinee tomorrow with two old friends. Sadly, they had to cancel. What on Earth will we do with the tickets?"

“They are _not_ staying at my flat. I know Ligur got better, but even so, it’s hard to know how much Dagon remembers."

“So stop circling my chair like that. It makes it so hard to talk properly when you’re stalking.” Crowley decided to take this as an invitation and dropped onto the arm of Aziraphale’s chair, draping an arm over delectably fleshy shoulders. “Dear boy, you have quite a pleasant second flat you stay in when you’re working in London, don't you?"

“Since when?"

Aziraphale slid a hand around Crowley’s hip and dropped lower, as Crowley froze, not daring to move. The angel’s plump hand retrieved Crowley’s phone from his pocket and handed it to him. “I do believe that the other day you were telling me about this brilliant concept you come up with called homestay lodgings. Air BNB or something.” He smiled. “So proud of your hard work, dear. I’ll go call Tristan and Nell while you arrange something, and you can drive us up."

“I didn’t say I’d let them in the Bentley!"

“You very kindly offered to show it to Tristan,” Aziraphale reproved. “This is the perfect opportunity."

“Hope they like Queen,” Crowley muttered, although in fact the curse of _Best of Queen_ had lifted when they left Tadfield. If it was Dagon, though, or some bloody angel, they _deserved_ to be subjected to Freddie Mercury.

It was only after he had found somewhere bearable in Kensington in the Plum Guide, miraculously unbooked, while trying to control jealous resentment at the friendly pleasure in Airaphale’s voice on the phone, that Crowley caught a certain word and tensed.

“Angel. _What did you arrange for us to see?_"

“Well, I _had_ been meaning to see _White Christmas_, and it seemed the perfect opportunity to get in the spirit.” Aziraphale’s face was a picture of innocence.

Crowley groaned, collapsing sideways into the chair. His only consolation was that Dagon would suffer as much as he would.

He was conscious of just a little admiring pride. Arranging to take one to three demons to see _White Christmas_, angels really _were_ natural sadists. No wonder they took to Hell so well once Fallen.

* * *

Crowley wound down his window and scowled at how close Aziraphale and Tristan were walking together as they headed down the footpath. Tristan was wearing tartan again, this time in an exaggeratedly oversized pattern in beige with thin lavender stripes and with brown suede elbow patches. He _should_ have looked like a frowsty old professor. Instead the colours made his skin glow and he looked effortlessly stylish and just a bit camp. Crowley was afraid that next to him he would look pale and skinny and dressed like a teenager.

“I adore _White Christmas_!” Tristan was saying joyfully. “I’ve been three times already, and I am ecstatic to see it again in such delightful company.” He patted Aziraphale’s arm fondly, and Crowley fought the temptation to pull down his glasses to show Aziraphale just how much trouble he was in. He loved his Valentino glasses, but sometimes they got in the way of a good glare.

Aziraphale smiled serenely at him in a way that suggested he knew quite well what he was doing to annoy Crowley and was going to keep doing it anyway. “I’m so very pleased you could come,” he said, looking up at Tristan through his lashes. There was no way he didn’t know what he was doing.

Crowley sprang out of the car, said “Hullo, Tristan,” grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and whisked him around to the passenger side. He opened the door for him, and before he handed him in, pressed a hard kiss on his mouth. Tristan gracefully opened his own door as if Crowley had shown perfect manners.

Crowley was expecting a whispered scolding, or at least a reproachful look. He was surprised and pleased to just notice a certain flustered pleasure. So the angel _liked_ jealous possessiveness. Interesting.

“Such a beautiful car,” Tristan said easily. “Any seatbelts?"

“No,” Crowley said curtly, and “No,” Aziraphale said with resigned despair.

“I suppose you’re keeping her entirely vintage. Really quite a treat to ride in her. Do you find it’s a problem being so much slower than the traffic flow?"

Crowley smiled with all his teeth, and pulled out with a squeal. “Less than you’d expect."

He was pleased that Tristan subsided into silence as the Bentley peeled through the narrow streets. He wasn’t as hardened to Crowley’s driving as Aziraphale, who managed to turn only a little pale and not clutch to the door too obviously. Crowley solicitously held out a hand for Aziraphale to clutch for stability, which oddly was unappreciated and only earned him a sharp “Both hands on the wheel, please!"

They pulled in at Nell’s house, which turned out to be another sodding mansion just outside town, with a path that looked a mile long leading up to the house. Trust Aziraphale. Heaven might welcome the humble, but Aziraphale had expensive hobbies.

“Would you go collect Nell, dearest?” Aziraphale asked sweetly. “I’ll keep Tristan company."

Crowley gave him an aghast look of betrayal and fury. He could hardly refuse. After all, Aziraphale had probably spent lots of time alone in Tristan’s company since moving here, and Crowley had been an absolute fool to let him leave London and not follow him.

Even so. Aziraphale _had_ said he loved _him_. He hadn’t said precisely _how_ he loved him, still, Crowley was also sure Tristan had never spent an entire night snuggled up to Aziraphale’s hip and thigh. Some things only came with thousands of years of devotion. He should trust his clever angel. Crowley turned his expression into a softer one and leaned across to peck Aziraphale on the cheek. “Of course, darling."

He made sure to swing his hips even more enticingly than usual as he went up the path. He had just enough self-respect not to turn back and see if either angel or man was watching him.

Nell came to the door quickly. At least she wasn’t wearing tartan. She looked motherly and demure in tailored blue jacquard that made her eyes shine, but after all, she probably wasn’t Aziraphale’s type. Probably. At least in this form. If Aziraphale had a type, Crowley was pretty sure it was less womanly looking.

“Hello, Anthony, you old devil,” she said. “Have you and my Zira been enjoying yourselves?"

“We’ve been having a marvellous time. What’s that under your arm?” he asked suspiciously.

“Well, I thought we had an entire evening to fill after the show—so _very_ kind to give us a place for the night—and I know darling Zira will find this fun.”

She patted the box of Monopoly tucked under her arm, giving him a kind look, and any remaining doubts fell away from Crowley. “You were spying on ussss,” he hissed, “you bas–” Nell’s pale blue eyes glittered, and her lips parted to show too many teeth, definitely at least an extra row in there. “_My Lord,_” Crowley hastily amended.

Nell smiled, a fond human smile. “We’re all going to have a lovely time and renew our acquaintance.” She patted his arm maternally. “I’ve never been to a musical. Do you think you will enjoy it? I hope it’s not taking you away from your _work._ I’ll be expecting your email before you go to bed, Anthony."

He offered her—_them_—his arm, and they took it, bringing their heads close enough to whisper to each other as they walked to the car. “What about Tristan?” he hissed.

“What do you mean? Isn’t it just a double date?” Nell asked under their breath, still smiling at him. "Or am I supposed to chaperone him and keep him away from your heavenly boyfriend, you traitorous serpent?”

Crowley battled with himself for a moment, but while Dagon was obviously his enemy in every way including being his immediate superior, they were also in a fundamental way on the same side. It seemed a little stupid to try and hide things from them they obviously already knew. If they knew about Monopoly, they knew Crowley and Aziraphale had been speculating about Tristan. “Is he one of ours?"

“Don’t be more stupid than you can help."

Crowley remembered Tristan stepping over Aziraphale’s wards. “One of theirs, then?"

“Search me. Never occurred to me. I thought he was a local besotted with your _husband._ It was hilarious. Should have seen your face at the party."

They were nearly at the Bentley now. Tristan called out jovially, “No whispering secrets, or we’ll think you’re having an affair."

“Oh, Anthony is hardly _that_ ambitious,” Nell crooned. Crowley considered his options, then walked around to their side and chivalrously opened the door for them. No harm in sucking up. Besides, it now meant he had opened doors for everyone except Tristan, which gave him petty pleasure.

So did driving at a hundred and ten miles per hour on narrow roads, and the tense, terrified silence that gripped the car until they were on the motorway and the assembled company relaxed a little at the lack of quick bends.

“I’ve never been to a West End musical before,” Nell confessed when speech became possible.

“Lucky you,” Crowley muttered, at the same time that Aziraphale gasped, “Oh, my _dear_. I am so glad we are rectifying this for you."

“Musicals are my breath and life,” said Tristan. “Music and poetry in general are my special sphere. It’s one of the reasons Zira and I were so drawn together."

_His fucking husband is in the car, you know,_ Crowley hissed silently at Tristan.

“How lovely,” said Nell. “Is _White Christmas_ an especially good one?"

“Indeed. It’s so full of love and hope and the spirit of Christmas. And the songs! Irving was quite the genius. Of course, the _true_ musicals, the ones that are truly the gift of God delivered through the prayers of humanity, are the Hammerstein musicals. They make my heart want to sing like the chime that flies from the Earth on a breeze.” Tristan sighed. “I can never be unmoved by the rush of the song."

Crowley felt a hand on his thigh, fingers digging into the muscles, and turned to give Aziraphale an ardent look in return. Instead, he nearly drove into a truck in the next lane, until Nell shrieked and he jerked his attention back to the road.

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide with anguish, and his face was almost pale with stricken horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Well, my dears, do we know who Tristan is yet? Just in case you need a final clue, google “unmoved by the rush of the song”. Use the quotation marks, though, or you’ll get songs by Rush. XD
> 
> The Plum Guide is like AirBNB for people like Crowley. The flat I have in mind is about $2,000 Australian dollars a night. Crowley doesn’t slum it any more than Aziraphale does. 
> 
> [Tristan’s shirt ](https://www.matchesfashion.com/products/1279058)  
and   
[](https://thehourlondon.com/collections/coats-jackets/products/jacquard-flounce-sleeve-jacket)  
Nell’s jacket  
4) I hoped to get to the Monopoly game this instalment, but it’s getting late, and I wanted to update, my patient dears. Thank you as always for your support and comments, they mean so much.
> 
> 5) Chapter titles are still from Kylie songs. This one is from   
__  
Stop Me From Falling  
  
which—may be ironic.


	12. I see them all smiling, those all around me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale discovers the delight of British human culture that is motorway services, four ancient occult and celestial beings sit down for a friendly game of Monopoly, and Crowley is ever chivalrous.

Crowley forced himself to relax his shoulders and slump more, showing no tension in his posture. Be cool, he told himself. Show no fear. He let his left hand reach for Aziraphale’s again, and this time the angel took it, clinging tightly to it as if it was his only source of stability.

“Feeling a little carsick, darling?” Crowley asked tenderly, and Aziraphale nodded gratefully.

“I can’t imagine why he would be,” Tristan said drily.

“Sorry, guys. Zira’s stomach can be a little delicate sometimes. Too much rich food, I keep telling him. What say we stop off at the next services and get a cup of tea to settle him down?"

“That sounds highly entertaining,” Nell said cheerfully. “Please do."

Crowley managed to resist turning around to glare at them. “No objections, Tristan?” he asked in a tone that made it clear that he would brook no argument.

“By all means,” Tristan said courteously.

In more usual circumstances, Crowley would have shaved his head before taking Aziraphale to motorway services, both because it wasn’t exactly the kind of place to enjoy treating him and because his soul would wither at the remarks Aziraphale would make at the refreshments available. This one didn’t even have a Waitrose. That Aziraphale didn’t object at all was a worrying sign.

He pulled the Bentley in, careful to stop across three parking spaces, and sprang around to Aziraphale’s side, opening Nell’s door, although not Tristan’s, as he went.

“All right, angel?” he asked sympathetically, taking the chance to pull Aziraphale close as he helped him out. Aziraphale managed a limp smile. “I’m sorry guys, if you don’t mind getting Zira a cup of tea and some water, I think I’d best get him to the loos. Just in case."

“Absolutely my pleasure,” said Tristan, offering a courtly arm to Nell. “We’ll see you in a minute, boys."

Crowley steered Aziraphale to the public toilets, stalked up to and glared at the sole human at the urinal until he zipped up and departed in terror, kicked every cubicle door to make sure they were empty, and magically locked the main door. Then he pulled Aziraphale close, wrapping his arms tightly around him, some part of the back of his mind marvelling that he could just _do_ this now, as if touching him after thousands of years was nothing.

“So,” he said at last. “Who is he?"

“Sandalphon."

“Can’t say I know that one."

“How can you possibly not know Sandalphon?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley was glad to hear a note of irritation cut through the fear.

“Angel, there were twelve million of us before the Fall, and I was terrible at making friends. I couldn’t possibly know every celestial being. I didn’t know even you, did I?” He kissed Aziraphale’s forehead, and was gratified to sense the fear draining even further. Aziraphale always tended to be fretful and anxious, except when things were actually serious, in which case he became implacable. “Even though _you_ noticed _me_,” Crowley added, trying to help with added tenderness.

“You knew him."

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t."

“Enoch, the first King of humans. Right back near the beginning before the Flood."

“_Him_? He was a decent songwriter but he was a pain in my arse, peace reigning under him and all that, until he vanished—holy fuck."

“_Language_, Crowley. He was translated into paradise and became the archangel of music, poetry and prayer.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound too intimidating, even if he’s an archangel. What’s he going to do, sing to us? Chin up, darling.” Crowley matched action to words by putting a finger under Aziraphale’s face to tip it up to his, and wondered if he had the courage to kiss him softly on the lips, to the musical trickle of the urinals and heady scent of disinfectant and inadequately cleaned toilets. He kind of failed at creating a romantic atmosphere. Still, he decided selflessly, his angel needed cheering up, so if he had to kiss him here, he would.

“He’s on my team, and he’s also a Dominion."

“Oh,” Crowley said flatly, the fear making sense now. “That’s not great.” They were a notoriously smiting bunch, Dominions. Just as bad after they Fell. You really didn’t want to piss off Satan enough to get turned over to Oilliet and Rosier.

“Not just any Dominion, either. Did you ever visit Gomorrah?"

"Sure," said the demon. "There was this great little tavern where you could get these terrific fermented date-palm cocktails with nutmeg and crushed lemongrass—"

"I meant afterwards."

"Oh.”1 Crowley wetted suddenly dry lips, aware that he was embracing the angel in a public toilet while they both wore male-presenting corporations. “Do you think it would help if I changed—no, a bit late by now. Anyway, I thought you said a while back that current thinking was that this was okay?"

“You’re the _Enemy._ I think that’s more of an issue than your favourite shape."

“Oh. Yeah. Mm. That reminds me. You were right about Nell being Dagon, by the way. Declared themselves too, on the way to the car. Seem to be having the time of their lives."

“So now we know.” Aziraphale stepped back a bit. “Seems a bit silly to keep pretending to be married humans."

Crowley hastily pulled him back, feeling like a kid whose favourite birthday toy was on the brink of being snatched away for poor behaviour. “Nah. We still don’t know what they are up to. Better keep the ruse up. Sandalphon knows you know he’s Sandalphon, and Dagon knows I know Nell is Dagon. They don’t necessarily know about each other, unless—heaven, Dagon might be listening in right now, but maybe not if they are with Sandalphon, I don’t know."

“I can’t imagine Sandalphon working with a demon,” Aziraphale fretted, but he sank back into the hug contentedly enough.

“Dagon didn’t seem to know who he was. I mean, they could be lying about it, Dagon lies just for the fun of it. Still, I think they genuinely didn’t know. Maybe they would be interested in helping us figure it out. Do a bit of celestial thwarting."

“You seem almost pleased at the idea,” Aziraphale said curiously.

“Yeah, well, Dagon is a sadistic petty bastard, but they’re not the worst of our lot by far. I _like_ petty bastards, lucky for you."

He expected an offended objection. Aziraphale just said, “I suppose I am very lucky, dear boy,” and rubbed his face against Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley could have sworn his heart stopped completely for a few seconds.

“All better? You can have a nice—well, nasty—cup of tea, and we’ll go to your sodding musical, and all play Monopoly tonight. And whatever dastardly game you are planning that you won’t tell me about. _All friends._ An angel and demon double date, oh Satan."

That made Aziraphale chuckle. “Sorry, my dear, it was a bit of a shock. Thank you for the comfort.” His lips brushed Crowley’s cheek.

“Any time,” Crowley managed, as his vital functions forgot what they were supposed to do for a bit. “Come on, angel.” He slipped his hand into Aziraphale’s and led him out.

Tristan and Nell were apparently engaged in deep conversation when found their inadequately cleaned table.

“You’re looking much better, Zira,” Tristan said genially. “Roses back in your cheeks. A hot drink will set you straight, in a matter of speaking.” Crowley considered picking up the nearest cup and emptying it over his smug angelic head.

There was tea for the angels, and coffee for the demons, which Crowley found interesting. Also, sipping it cautiously, his coffee was much better than he expected coffee made by some untrained British “barista” to be, which suggested his line manager was having an oddly benign moment.

There was also a plate in the centre of the table, heaped with pastries. They looked flaky, buttery and of a quality entirely unexpected of the usual sad fare at motorway services. Crowley cast an anxious glance at the chair beside him. Aziraphale’s eyes were gleaming.

“We thought a bite to eat might help settle your poor tummy, Zira darling, so we chose you a selection,” Nell said. They turned bright eager eyes to Aziraphale’s face, as did Tristan, as Aziraphale reached for a pain au chocolat. There was a steep rise in breathless tension around the table as Aziraphale raised it to his mouth.

Crowley sprawled back in his chair and imagined he had unlimited access to hellfire and holy water.

* * *

Crowley put on some music as they left again, to try and ward off any conversation that might unsettle his angel again. Besides, if he was going to sit through Irving Berlin, Crowley deserved some Brahms first. Unfortunately, either the Bentley was pissed off at carrying strangers, Aziraphale’s anxiety about Dominions was affecting the poor darling car and she was expressing her beloved angel Papa’s worry musically, or some bastard was deliberately trying to upset Aziraphale more despite the pleasure he had given everyone over the pastries. The CD Crowley had put on was clearly marked _Piano Concerto No. 2,_ but what came out of the Blaupunkt was--

“Oh, Benjamin Britten!” said Tristan joyously. “What a treat! Divinely inspired, this opera. Thank you, Anthony."

Crowley reached out silently and let Aziraphale grip his hand.

> Fourtye dayes and fortye nightes  
Raine shall fall forther unrightes,  
And that I have made through my mightes  
Now thinke I to destroye.2

It was definitely Sandalphon. Crowley had always pegged Tristan for a sadist.

* * *

“Not really the kind of place I fancied you living in, Anthony,” Nell said, looking around the penthouse flat. “I like the monochromatic colour scheme, white and black and grey, very… thematic. But I somehow imagined you with rather less cushions.” Crowley stared at the hundreds of cushions on every sitting surface, and was at a loss to explain them as part of his aesthetic.

“I like cushions,” Aziraphale said helpfully, and Nell beamed fondly at him.

“Of course you do, Zira dear. Always like your earthly comforts. That explains it, then. Your husband really does spoil you dotingly, doesn’t he?"

“Right,” Crowley said, turning red. “Master bedroom is down the hall, the other three are up for grabs, fight over them yourselves. We’ll get settled and then—"

“I’ll make tea,” Tristan offered.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale said affectionately, just as if he hadn’t been grey with terror about him an hour before. Crowley wondered if it was brilliant acting or some kind of natural angelic buoyancy.

“I’ve arranged for housekeeping to send up some light lunch. The show isn’t until three, so we have plenty of time."

“Oh, goodie,” said Nell. “I’ll get the Monopoly board set up, shall I?"

“How _marvellous_,” said Tristan enthusiastically. “My favourite game. We’ll reserve the race car for you, Anthony."

“I bag the iron,” said Aziraphale.

“There’s no iron in this set, darling,” Nell said sympathetically. “Don’t worry, I have the _perfect_ one for you."

Hell, Crowley realised. He was in hell. In sudden determination, he pulled Aziraphale down the hall into the master bedroom, snatched him close and kissed him, trying to lay claim to at least a tiny bit of heaven before he faced board games.

Aziraphale tensed for a moment, and Crowley prepared to pull away, but then soft lips parted and returned the kiss gently and oh, yes, it really was sweeter than heaven had ever been, even if he didn’t dare deepen the kiss as much as his instincts screamed at him to.

“Come on, my angel,” he said softly. “Let’s go join the battle. Together."

“Together,” whispered Aziraphale.

* * *

“You are demolishing my _flat_ to build a _hotel_,” snapped Crowley, watching Aziraphale scoop the four houses off Kensington. So bloody much for battling together. It was bad enough that Mayfair was apparently now called Kensington on the board, which made him feel like he had somehow lost prestige, but Aziraphale building hotels on what the demon somewhat confusedly thought was _both_ his flats was too much. “So much for loyalty."

“Sorry, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said, beaming angelically at him. “All’s fair in love and board games. This is such fun, isn’t it?” Crowley reflected that there was nothing worse than a good winner.

“He’s awfully good, isn’t he?” Nell said admiringly. “Positively demonic. If I’d known how much talent he had, I would thought about recruiting him ages ago.” Crowley sent them a sharp glance. They just looked at the board, where Aziraphale had managed to nail not only all the airports but the dark blue, orange and red squares, and was busily developing them, while the best Crowley had managed was the mobile phone company and the bloody useless pale blue squares. He had even lost out on the Internet company to Nell.

The worst thing was, he couldn’t cheat. He was pretty sure he hadn’t played a game of anything without cheating before in his life. Aziraphale generally caught him, which was all part of the fun. Especially in his days of travelling the Orient Express as a card shark, when Aziraphale was forced to choose between his principles and risking getting Crowley discorporated. He always chose Crowley, which was highly satisfying, even if he had to put up with lectures and sulks afterwards.

It wasn’t that Crowley wasn’t _trying_ to cheat. He had standards, after all, and the nerve-wracking knowledge that his line manager was at the table checking if he was being demonic enough. It was that he couldn’t. At least one Someone at the table was interfering with his powers, and he had no idea if it was Sandalphon or Dagon. Possibly both. He threw the dice down hard on the table, and--

“Oh, hard luck,” said Tristan, as Crowley scowlingly moved the racing car to Hammersmith.

“Is that mine?” Aziraphale asked innocently. “Oh, look, it has a hotel too."

“You are going to _pay_ for this,” growled Crowley, counting out a stack of money.

Aziraphale pointedly looked at the pathetically small pile of money and cards in front of Crowley. "I hardly think so, sweetheart."

Crowley turned pink and subsided. Cattiness _and_ new endearments. The angel was definitely not playing fair, did he _want_ Crowley to flip the table and kiss the life out of him instead?

“You should have had the cat playing piece,” he muttered.

“Oh, but I do adore the rubber duck. Nell was right."

Tristan, who had the cat, rolled. “Nell seems to know you quite well,” he noted. He landed on an airport and paid cheerfully and graciously up to Aziraphale.

“Oh, didn’t we ever mention it?” Nell moved the Tyrranosaurus Rex safely onto one of their own squares. “Zira and I are old friends who lost touch. We used to work together. I trained him in administration, in fact. Such a dear.” She sighed. “But I was never meant to work there."

“What you taught me has been very useful in running my bookshop. I’ll always be grateful. Do you miss working there?” Aziraphale asked softly, and no, oh no, Crowley took back every thought he had that it was almost not so bad having Dagon around, he shouldn’t have forgotten for one moment how sneaky they were.

“They wouldn’t ever take me back, dear, not after being head-hunted by the enemy.” Nell turned tragic blue eyes to Aziraphale and oh no, oh no, oh _fuck._ They were hitting Aziraphale’s weak spots with perfect accuracy—food, antiques, and now… “They think of me as being a traitor for leaving. They are not known for being forgiving."

“That’s not true,” Aziraphale said eagerly, “if you are truly _sorry_ and want to return, I’m sure they would reconsider.” Crowley was going to scream.

“You make it sound like you used to work for the Mafia,” Tristan said, laughing heartily.

“Much worse than that.” Crowley gave Aziraphale a tight smile. He was finding it difficult to think through his fury. “Your turn, angel.” Aziraphale was still sitting, dice in hand, staring at Nell.

“Sometimes, there have to be sides, and punishments for traitors,” Tristan said. “Otherwise, what is the point of competition at all?” He gave a tight, nasty smile, quite unlike his usual genial manner. “I’m very competitive."

Aziraphale tried to roll the dice, but they slipped from the mirrored glass table and skidded under the. “Oh _dear_.” He dropped to his hands and knees.

“I’ll get it, angel,” Crowley said, quickly and solicitously, and bent down to scoop them up. He caught sight of Aziraphale’s face down there, and what he saw sent pain lancing through his belly. He touched Aziraphale’s arm swiftly and comfortingly, and came up again, dice triumphantly in his hand. “There. I’ll look after you,” he promised, the weight of it almost crushing him. It took a moment for Aziraphale to resurface.

“We’d better get ready,” Tristan said smoothly. “We can resume the game later.”

“Of course, of course,” Aziraphale fluttered. Crowley pulled him to his feet chivalrously and they went to their room.

“Are you feeling all right?” Crowley stroked Aziraphale's cheek. He would do anything, he realised with choking clarity, absolutely anything, to make sure the only wrinkles that disturbed that soft curve were smile lines. If he was a vice-filled demon, well, then, his vices could be pressed to a least one kind of angelic service.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, not meeting his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Crowley growled, crushed him tight for a moment, and then left the room without a word.

1 Yeah, I lifted the passage directly from the novel, it was too perfect for my purposes to mess with.↩

2 From Benjamin Britten’s “church opera” _Noye’s Flood_, (Noah’s Flood), which uses the text from a 15th century Chester mystery play. The quote is from the narrative bit _I, God, That All This World Hath Wroughte,_ which doesn’t actually have any music, but I’ve added the music to the first track (which immediately precedes it), _Lord Jesus Think On Me_, and the Brahms, to [6,0000 Years of Angsty Pining](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19994833) for anyone curious.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Just a reminder that this is following book canon for the end—Crowley hasn’t had any reason to meet Sandalphon.
> 
> 2) Dominions are the angels charged with “enforcing God’s justice upon the world.” I don’t think it’s an accident that Gaiman (and Pterry?) chose the Dominion archangel Sandalphon as one of Aziraphale’s new supervisors. (I’m of the opinion that Gabriel either knew, or had heavy suspicions, about fraternisation.)
> 
> 3) According to Sébastien Michaëlis’s 17th century classification of demons, Oilliet and (possibly) Rosier are fallen Dominions officiating in Hell.
> 
> 4) I went through the shock of finding out that Monopoly boards and pieces have changed since I was a kid, and Mayfair is out. This was a devastating blow, but then I decided it would just cause more confusion for Crowley, and had a better choice of playing pieces. Besides, Dagon hasn’t been on Earth very long, they would have a new set.
> 
> 5) The monochrome homestay flat I finally picked for the celestials in Kensingston is over 1,800 pounds a night, or $2350-odd in US dollars. I counted 25 cushions on the lounge set, it was like an Australian bed.


	13. Now there's angels all around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley deals with the devil, or at least a demon. The celestial beings take in a show.

Aziraphale weighed up whether to follow Crowley or not. he had, as he would put it to himself, the heeby-jeebies. He was fretting too much to stand still, and--

Yes, he was bloody furious with the demon.

He knew he was in no place to speak. He had made his own terrible mistakes in not being clear and honest with Crowley when it really mattered. He had chosen his duty to report to Heaven about the Antichrist over his desire to confide in Crowley, and that should have been unforgivable, except that for a demon that talked about unforgivableness Crowley was surprisingly ready to forgive. Surely, though, the point was that they should have learned to talk to each other? And yes, he might possibly have overlooked telling Crowley there was a potential demon in the village and it was possibly his own line manager who had definitely recognised Crowley if so, but...

Aziraphale’s righteous anger dissolved in a puddle of remorseful self-reflection, and he decided to concentrate on worrying instead. Should he go after Crowley? Did he run the risk of making things worse? Surely Crowley would not confront Sandalphon alone. Surely he would _feel_ it if Crowley was in real danger. Feel a certain pull, a call.

He hadn’t known when Ligur and Hastur had come for Crowley, too caught up in his own research and conflicts.

Aziraphale sighed and concentrated on picking out cologne and a rather lovely new silk bow tie for the show, changing into his old, elegant waistcoat and jacket rather than the new cardigan jacket. The perfect soft fabric and the silk lining still delighted him, but part of him missed the easy drape of the cashmere cardigan. His new life, unconstructed and cheerfully chaotic. A conservatory crammed with terrified plants, burned down kitchens, unnecessary gadgets.

The ridiculous pretence at marriage, which was not ridiculous at all, which was filled with friendship and a demon thrusting into his life and rearranging it to suit himself and a hand tucked in his elbow or interlaced with his and longing. A frustrating, demanding demon murmuring words of love and stealing embraces.

_Do you **want** to have a demon?_ Do you want to risk Falling or annihilation for love? To ask it as if it was something simple. And then, faced with a Dominion and an Under-Duke of Hell, to just vanish off by himself and take who knew what stupid risks without discussing them.

Aziraphale was once again very angry indeed.

The door flung back open, Aziraphale snapped with some asperity, “Where do you think you went?"

“Buying insurance.” Crowley had changed clothes at some point. The jeans were replaced by drainpipe trousers that were familiar, oh too familiar, from the twentieth and nineteenth centuries. Folds of lustrous red silk hanging around his neck and chest, delicately patterned with black snakes. Looking captivatingly handsome, in fact, and how _dare_ he look like that when Aziraphale was worrying?

Crowley reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders. The glasses were still shielding his eyes, but his mouth looked—what did it look? Fierce and tender and oddly jubilant, with a kind of hysterical gaiety lifting the corners that was deeply concerning. “Don’t glare, angel. I told you, I’ll look after you. Dagon—didn’t I say they’re not so bad? They mean you no harm."

“What about you? Do they mean you harm?” Aziraphale asked, crisply. “I’m not afraid of any middle-management demon on my own behalf, thank you."

“I’ll be fine,” Crowley said dismissively. “I know what they are after now, and—oh, Aziraphale! If only I could tell you. It’s such a joke. Dangerous, but hilarious. Always knew Dagon was an idiot."

“Tell me, then,” Aziraphale said, a flicker of anger returning. Crowley really did seem too manic, but then his two default moods were so laid back he was almost upside down or strung up to the point of snapping.

“Can’t. Demonic contract. You know.” Crowley looked guilty. “Bound with hellfire and signed in triplicate, can’t tell you without Dagon’s express permission."

Aziraphale huffed and started to pull away, and Crowley pushed his glasses up on top of his head and looked pleadingly at him, arms held out slightly to his side. The _look, angel, I’m no threat, I’m vulnerable, give me what I want and don’t worry about the consequences_ pose. Aziraphale recognised it, he understood it, and still his heart always wanted to fall for it.

If Dagon’s intentions really were a joke, then Crowley wouldn’t have made a formal demonic contract. What had Crowley promised?

“Angel, don’t scowl at me that. Not now. I need to know—I really need to know, Aziraphale—if you meant it when you said you l-loved me.” He stumbled over it. "Don’t worry about _how_ you love me, I don’t need any dithering over whether it’s _philia_ or _pragma_ or even bloody _agape_—do you love me any tiny bit at all?"

Aziraphale looked into the golden eyes, bulging and no longer human shaped, pupils dilated to nearly fill them, and pushed aside millennia of denial to say, the words coming out more defiantly and sulkily than they should, “I love you. I’m sorry I ever made you doubt it.”

"That’s good. Great. I love you too. One more. Do you _like_ me?"

“I like you more than any being in all the world.” His voice was shaking. And why wasn’t Crowley kissing him? Surely they should be kissing after declarations like this. Why was Crowley's “I love you too” so hurried and matter-of-fact?

“Fine. That’s—that’s perfect. And me too. If it wasn’t obvious by now. Aziraphale, my only friend, my angel, I would do anything for you. Bloody anything.” His eyes bulged even further, and they shouldn’t have looked appealing, they should have looked monstrous.

“Will you obey red lights for me?” He tried a tiny smile.

“Big things. I would do any _big_ things for you. You don’t want to upset the Bentley by restraining her like that, she trusts you."

_Will you tell me what you and Dagon talked about?_ It hovered on his lips, but it wasn’t actually possible to say. He knew enough about demonic contracts to know Crowley couldn’t fool with it. What had the dear idiot boy done? Aziraphale was so scared for him that the butterflies fluttered unbearably through his chest.

He put a hand on each side of Crowley’s face and pulled it down to his own, trying to communicate his concern, his love, his _liking_ if that was what was truly needed, in his kiss. Crowley held very still for a second, then his arm went around the back of Aziraphale’s head, pulling him close, lips parting, kissing more deeply, as if Aziraphale being the one to initiate had broken some kind of dam of self-control. Aziraphale felt a tongue swipe against his, more delicate than any human tongue, and had the strangest feeling that the insides of his thighs had turned to liquid.

“You boys ready?” called out Tristan’s jovial voice.

Crowley broke the kiss, and Aziraphale expected him to swear, but instead he laughed, a little wildly. “Come on, angel. We have your blasted musical show to watch. You _owe_ me for taking me to this,” and his tone was so normal and fond that it made all of Aziraphale’s agitation seem silly. “The things I do for my husband."

Aziraphale wondered when the mocking tone added to _my husband_ had completed faded away, and when he had started to feel a kind of terror at the thought of never hearing it again. It wasn’t like he hadn't entertained the thought that Crowley was enjoying the game, and might even want it to continue. It had seemed such a silly thought, barely even to be acknowledged at the back of his head, that a demon would want to be _married_, even to their best friend.

Crowley always teased, always flirted, always posed, always circled, always was far too aware of how attractive he was, far too aware that Aziraphale couldn’t help noticing the long lean legs, the lovely planes of his face, the graceful turn of his neck. A long game, across thousands of human lifetimes, inevitable when your Adversary was both unexpectedly companionable and a creature of lust. It was never anything to take seriously. Certainly not something to admit was sometimes painful.

_I ask you again, angel, do you want to have me?_

The answer was quite simple, almost terrifyingly so, after being kissed like that. Yes. In _every_ way.

Except that they were sharing a flat with their supervisors, and one was a blessed Dominion, and Crowley had made some kind of secret deal with the other, and they had a musical to go to with them. Because nothing ever _was_ simple for them.

* * *

The music swirled from the orchestra, and Aziraphale, forgetting his worries, sighed and let his worries drain away as the girls came out on stage, letting himself get swept up along with the music and spectacle. The two of them might be wedged between a senior angel and a middle-level demon, but Irving Berlin was Irving Berlin.

_"Never had to have a chaperone, no sir—_"

A light by his side distracted his attention.

“Turn off your phone!” Aziraphale breathed, outraged.

“I’m not the only one with my phone turned on,” hissed Crowley, closing his game. “Listen—“ The audience erupted with trills, buzzes, flashing screens, and music. Pain flickered across the faces of the performers for just a split second, as they gamely carried on while hundreds of people simultaneously hastily grabbed their mobile phones from laps, pocket and bags and tried to turn them off. “See?” Crowley said innocently as if that had exonerated him.

“What a strange and unfortunate thing to happen,” Tristan murmured across Crowley’s other side. Crowley had sat down beside Tristan awfully quickly, and Aziraphale was fairly sure it was to maintain a protective barrier. On Aziraphale's other side, Nell's shoulders were shaking with repressed giggles.

“Must be a telephonic wave surge,” Aziraphale said through gritted teeth. He reached for Crowley’s hand and grasped it so tightly he could almost feel the bones press together, daring him to try anything else.

Crowley sighed contentedly and settled back in his chair, as much as he ever settled in a chair, which was to mean he sprawled sideways across the armrest, head drifting towards Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“You could have just _asked_ to hold my hand,” Aziraphale whispered into his ear, as the audience settled. He could feel the grin against his shoulder, as the audience settled and the show carried on.

“_Those who have seen us, know not a thing could come between us…_” The actors were regaining courage.

He was aware that the grip of his hand had relaxed, and he was idly drawing his thumb back and forth across the back of Crowley’s hand. The demon tilted his head slightly and Aziraphale sensed rather than felt a kiss against his shoulder.

“A telephonic wave surge? Really, angel."

“Hush,” Aziraphale commanded, in agony, knowing he had been tempted, or provoked, far too easily into taking in a theatre, and that people had recovered enough from the phone incident to be glaring.

Crowley did indeed hush, and everything settled down. Aziraphale let himself drift into the show again, deliberately sealing his fear off and concentrating on the delightful misunderstandings of the love stories, the movement and glitter of the costumes and dance, the music, the weight of a head on his shoulder, the cool hand linked to his. This would be, he thought with keen pain, so utterly delightful if it was only the two of them there. Crowley would still carp and sulk about the choice of show, but he would be indulgent enough to go anyway, and hold hands and snuggle just like this, and buy him a special supper afterwards, watching him in that dark intense way he had, and they would go home together….

…if they were actually married.

Just a couple of weeks ago, and the thought would have seemed absurd. But he could feel, surely he could feel, happiness and contentment radiating from the slim form by his side. Their charade, which only had the thinnest justification now, didn’t require secret kisses on his shoulder or slumping against him in the dark. Certainly didn't require embraces behind closed doors.

Crowley was _happy _acting like a couple, Aziraphale was sure of it, he could feel it radiating off him whenever they were close. Crowley was hardly ever happy; he enjoyed himself very much, true, but _happy_ was not a word associated with the denizens of Hell. The knowledge had always hurt Aziraphale, that no matter how much fun Crowley was having, there was always an undercurrent of emptiness. Crowley was lonely, Azirphale knew that, and had been showing a raw eagerness for attention and affection that cut Aziraphale to the bone. The demon had said he loved him, twice now, and neither time for an audience. Crowley had definitely made his more physical intentions clear in the hotel. He had made his offer and hadn't pressed. He had always been oddly chivalrous for a Fallen being.

Crowley probably wouldn’t mind being married, at least unofficially. Wouldn't mind the closeness and acknowledgement of being a team, let alone the other things. The thought was so heady that Aziraphale felt he was floating on the music.

_"And if you're worried and you can't sleep, count your blessings instead of sheep."_

Tristan shifted on the other side of Crowley, and Aziraphale came back to Earth with a bump. An angel being married to a demon was a really, really stupid idea, and they couldn’t keep up this pretence of humanity forever.

Nell shifted as if in response to his rise in tension, and their hand came up and patted Aziraphale on the knee. Not playfully, not coquettishly. Reassuringly. Almost possessively. In concert, Crowley's hand squeezed his. Aziraphale was surrounded by demons, and he had the oddest feeling that they had united to protect him from a fellow angel. Cushioned from Grace by evil and hellfire.

Unbidden, a guilty memory drifted back into his mind: when they couldn’t find the Antichrist, when everything was falling apart, he had seriously considered asking Crowley if Hell would offer him asylum.

What the literal _Hell_ was the deal Crowley had made with Dagon?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Lyrics from Irving Berlin's _White Christmas_\--the songs are _Sisters_ and _Count Your Blessings_. We're apparently in the future as of writing this, as White Christmas doesn't open in the West End until October.
> 
> 2) Thank you all for the support for this ridiculous pining fluff! I particularly enjoyed the responses to Sandalphon. ;)
> 
> 3) Cleaned up the tagset a bit because I stopped trying to do Ineffable Husbands Bingo with this a while back, it took on a life of its own.


	14. Get the message through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley deals with a demon, and talks to an angel.

####  About Two Hours Before

"Hello, Anthony dear,” Nell said, when he knocked on their door. “Come right in.” He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "Are you really going to wear those jeans to the theatre?"

Crowley absently clicked his fingers and his jacket was matched with immaculately pressed, although still tight, trousers. One of his favourite pairs, old reliables from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the familiar touch comforting. Perhaps he was more like Aziraphale than he pretended to himself.

Nell smiled at him as if seeing him perform magic in front of them was a small victory in some way. “What can I do for you, Crowley?"

Well, that was the thing.

It wasn’t like Crowley hadn’t imagined saying the words he was about to say. The first time he had felt them forming in his head, something barely acknowledged, had been during the travelling Zoo incident, when he’d looked into those multi-shaded eyes and seen Questioning. There had been other times… But Aziraphale, for all his self-indulgences, his small dishonesties, his devotion to kindness rather than morality, was so filled with light, so essentially incorruptible that Crowley had pushed the words aside again and again.

He remembered Tristan’s hard expression, and the look in Aziraphale’s eyes under the table. Crowley could trust Heaven, or he could trust Hell. He made a choice.

“Aziraphale may need asylum from Heaven for a while if shit goes down. Real asylum, no torture or interrogation, keep the hellfire away from him, until he can negotiate his way back. ” The next bit was even harder to say, with amused pale eyes shimmering at him. He took a deep breath. “If he actually Falls, will you request him for our team? If you guarantee he will be safe from torments and free to move about Earth and enjoy himself, I’m prepared to deal."

Dagon smiled like a piranha, scales glittering under their skin. “I thought you’d never ask. Let’s talk terms.” They settled on the edge of the bed. “They’re going to have to be pretty tough. Principalities go to Prince Verrier, you know that. I’ll owe her big if I steal one, and I’ll need something at least equally valuable to make up for it. What can a lowly demon out of favour with the Dark Lord possibly offer me?"

Crowley winced. “I was hoping you could tell me that. Dagon, what the fuck are you even doing here, hanging around my friend?"

Dagon laughed, and Crowley felt a stab of real fear. He clenched his fingers, and prayed to Satan, God and anyone else who could hear that it would be a price he could pay.

Perhaps Someone answered, because as Dagon explained, Crowley could feel gleeful laughter welling up in him.

* * *

####  _White Christmas_ Act I.

Crowley, for a damned creature wedged between soldiers of Heaven, one of whom he was pretty sure would be happy to see him in a sulphur pit for eternity, and forced to watch what he was convinced was the most saccharine show in existence, was completely happy.

He didn’t see how he could be anything else. His head was snuggled against a welcoming shoulder, his hand enclosed in a firm grip. He wondered if Aziraphale actually realised he was tracing heart shapes on the back of Crowley's hand with his thumb. Intentional or not, it was so heart-stoppingly soppy and ridiculous that Crowley felt he was losing points with Hell by the second by putting up with it.

He would rather snooze on holy ground than pull his hand away. The freezing rage from Tristan beside him only added to his pleasure.

Crowley stopped even pretending to pay attention to the show. Instead he concentrated on the more interesting entertainment of trying to work out the exact cologne Aziraphale was wearing. It was one of his favourite games, using his enhanced snake senses to detect the perfume and then tease him about it. Every now and then he dropped off some expensive flacons to Aziraphale’s barber, an old acquaintance of his. This one—ah, this was one of his. Pears, for his pear-loving angel. Champagne, for the enchanting hedonist he was. Smoky vetiver for tradition, white flowers for purity. Crowley approved of the suitability of his own choice.

Aziraphale was somehow despite the situation, clearly managing to enjoy himself, his rich chuckle rolling out at the corny jokes. Adorable. Crowley could put up with musicals if he got to snuggle like this, even though he preferred concerts with actually decent music. They had been to so many concerts together, and he had savoured with the brushing of sleeves, the warmth of the plump body beside him, the chance to watch Aziraphale’s face transformed with bliss at the music. Funny how, in just a few days of closer contact, no touch seemed quite enough.

He’d known for a long time he was in love with Aziraphale. He had had centuries to get over being ashamed of the undemonic impulse and just accept it. In the last few days, though, it had shattered every restraint left in his blackened soul and he felt like he could do nothing but love, and want, and _protect_. He was so, so close to having everything he had ever wanted, so long as he managed not to fuck it up for once in his existence.

Every time Tristan moved or laughed, Crowley’s protective instincts flared up, and he tightened his grasp.

He didn’t actually realise that the first Act was over until the lights went up. He reluctantly lifted his head from Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Aziraphale smiled fondly at him. “Sleeping?"

He nodded, a bit too embarrassed to admit he’d just been sitting there adoring.

“You still have your glasses on, Anthony,” Tristan said.

Crowley shrugged. He didn’t even have the energy to come up with an excuse. Tristan—Sandalphon—knew exactly why, anyway.

He kept hold of Aziraphale’s hand as they trailed out. He was amused and a little relieved to notice that as soon as they reached the foyer Nell slid her arm through Aziraphale’s free arm. It was bizarre, when he thought about it, being pleased to see another demon hanging onto Aziraphale, but all he really cared about right now was that his angel had a guard.

He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand and dropped it. “Nell, Zira, would you mind picking up the interval drinks?” He was fairly sure Aziraphale hadn’t bothered to pre order, and equally sure they would be there waiting for them. “Tristan, come outside for a smoke."

“I don’t—“ Tristan caught his eye, and looked frowningly from Crowley to Aziraphale, standing arm-in-arm with Nell. “Zira, will you be all right if we go?"

“I’ll be fine with Nell,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “What could possibly happen to me here, you two mother hens?"

“He has a third mother hen right here, and she needs a drink,” said Nell, firmly. “Come on, Zira."

Tristan looked unhappy, but he nodded. “All right, outside."

Crowley grabbed his arm and pulled him outside. It was barely twilight—trust Aziraphale to pick a matinee rather than properly dramatic night time which would give him a demonic atmosphere—but the alley they turned into was miraculously empty. Crowley took his time sorting himself up and lighting up. Normally he would carefully position himself outside the door, as the only reason he smoked was to cause as much smell and inconvenience as possible to others, but he would have to be satisfied with just annoying Tristan.

“Any reason you’ve dragged me into an alleyway alone?” Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Your _husband_ is right inside."

“It’s not for the purposesof seduction.” Crowley blew smoke into his face, and was glad to see him wince. Temple of the body, huh. “Although don’t get me wrong, I’d suck your cock here and now if it would keep you away from him. Would you like that?"

“You’re degraded and disgusting."

“True. I’m a demon. Degraded and disgusting is in my job description."

“Cards on the table, then?” Tristan seemed much less unruffled by this than Crowley’s offer.

“Oh, not all of them. I’m a demon, after all.” He took a deep draw, and was a little put out when Tristan raised a hand to prevent the smoke getting in his face again. Frivolous use of a miracle.

“Here’s _my_ hand. I’m not going to let you or your evil friend harm our star Principality, you vile fiend.” Tristan’s mouth curled in a nasty smile.

Crowley blinked, glad the glasses hid his reaction. It really wasn’t what he had expected. “I have no intention of harming him. I would _never_ harm him."

“Bullshit. I don’t know how you entrapped him,” Tristan said. “I’ve been trying to work out if he posed a risk himself, or was the victim of a plot. After all, my brother told me you seem to have convinced him that it was God’s will that you opposed the Great Plan, like the First Deceiver you are. And then there he was, hobnobbing with yet another demon in another village."

Fear gripped Crowley’s heart. “He didn’t plan that,” he protested.

“We wondered if he was being recruited. And then you turned up, claiming to be his _husband_, parading your sins, pawing all over him. Befouling his purity with your presence."

“Yerk,” said Crowley, trying to remain cool. “About that—"

“You can imagine what a relief it was when he invited me to his show along with these demons.” Tristan was smiling again, a cold, terrifying smile that sat oddly on his handsome features. “A clear cry to me for help."

“W-what?"

“Oh, don’t play innocent, it's sickening in a demon.” Tristan leaned down and hissed into Crowley’s face, ignoring the smoke. “Whatever you have done to force that poor angel to pretend to be your husband, whatever hold you have on him, I will find it out, I will break it, I will present the evidence to Heaven and Hell and I will break _you_ into so many pieces even your Master will take an eternity reassembling you. If he even cares to. Now, I’m going to make sure your _friend_ does no wrong to my charge."

Tristan stormed back into the theatre, leaving Crowley _really_ wishing he had paid more attention to the play. He put out his cigarette, careful to litter, miracled away any smell from his breath and clothes to avoid displeasing Aziraphale, and hurried in after him.

Tristan was smiling and debonair again, chatting to an obviously nervous Aziraphale, as they both cradled champagne. Crowley grabbed his own, grabbed Nell, and pulled them aside.

“What is this blasted musical about?"

Nell blinked. “Dunno. Something about soldiers and there was dancing and romance. I was too bored and revolted to pay much attention.” They shared a brief look of sympathy. “Why? Afraid your husband will give you a pop quiz and find out you’ve been drooling over him rather than paying attention? You are so whipped."

“I think it’s important. The plot, I mean."

“Okay, let me ask my host.” Nell’s expression changed, became haunted and terrified. “_Please, some—_ No. None of that. I’ve been treating you well. You yell, your side of the bargain is over and you don’t get your reward, _and_ I shave your hair before I let you have your body back. Just tell the nice gentlemen what this show is about. I know you know. _Oh. Well, it’s about some ex-soldiers putting on a show to help revive the ski lodge of their old general. And they fall in love with some sisters who are helping them. That’s about it._"

“That doesn’t sound very helpful,” Crowley frowned.

“Yeah, think harder. _Oh! The younger sister wants to help get her older sister married, so she fakes an engagement._”

“Oh, bloody Heaven.” Crowley clutched his forehead. “And _you_ can stop laughing!"

Nell, or rather Dagon back in control of Nell’s body, was giggling so hard they could barely stand up. “Do you think he chose the show on purpose, or is he just that clueless?"

“I have no idea. He can be pretty absent-minded."

“No kidding. I always liked him, though. He’s going to be wonderful at temptations once he’s Fallen and he’s on our team. Who could resist those guileless eyes?"

“He’s not going to Fall,” Crowley said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, you seem so confident now.” They drained their glass. “Didn’t seem quite so sure earlier this evening. Anyway, isn’t that what we’re intent on finding out? If your pure angel will Fall or not?"

“He won’t Fall. I was just purchasing insurance. Besides, I will be _saved_ if I give Heaven the satisfaction."

Dagon just grinned at him, as the warning sounded to return to their seats.

Crowley stalked over, put his arm around Aziraphale and unceremoniously pulled him away from Tristan, planting a kiss on his lips. To his delight, Aziraphale’s lips parted willingly, enough to taste the champagne lingering on them, although when Crowley pulled away he saw the angel was blushing at the breach of social decorum. Crowley took the blush as a victory—even embarrassed, Aziraphale still responded.

“Still love me?” Crowley demanded.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, his face as open as an over-involved manager’s doors, but far more beautiful. Crowley felt himself shatter inside, and it was all he could do to remain even remotely cool.

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me for eternity.” Crowley gave Tristan a defiant look, and headed back for the seats, pulling a stunned Aziraphale by the waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Sandalphon is traditionally considered the brother of the Metatron, not because of any blood and but because they were both of human origin. In book canon, for you series-only fans, it was the Metatron, not Gabriel, who turned up in the airbase.
> 
> 2) The “Let’s pretend to get engaged!” scene from *White Christmas* is [here](https://youtu.be/bsRiFMhkiUo). It’s only three minutes, and worth watching. Basically it is fake dating/relationship/marriage between two people who are actually really into each other catnip.
> 
> 3) Aziraphale is wearing *#355 Poirot* by Russian niche perfumier Le Ré Noir. As far as I know it won’t be released until later this year, but apart from the notes, I couldn’t resist going our clever, booking gourmand a fragrance named after a clever gourmand from a book.
> 
> 4) Title from *What do I have to do?* by Kylie Minogue


	15. It's no secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving Aziraphale out of the equation is always a mistake.

Two demons and two angels walked from their theatre onto Tottenham Court Road. Any passers-by, if this hadn’t been London might have been curious to see the general shuffle around the short fair-haired man whose arm was being firmly gripped by the lanky ginger, and wondered why the elegant woman and distinguished middle-aged man were so determined to be the one closest to him, as if trying to defend him from the other. Fortunately, it _ was _ London, so everyone was pretending no other humans existed.

It wouldn’t even have occurred to them that no one in the small group was human.

Despite her smaller stature, the woman was wrigglier, and managed to slide her arm into his free elbow first.

A little flustered, Aziraphale said, “Well, we didn’t manage lunch, and I’m peckish, so I’ve arranged for early dining."

“Is that necessary, angel?” Crowley asked. “We can order… takeaway…” Aziraphale stared at up at him in horror as his voice trailed off. “I didn’t mean getting a dodgy curry, I meant… Oh, never mind. If we are all determined to carry on with this charade, early dinner it is. Where are we going?"

“Just this way,” Aziraphale said happily, and they made their way down the road, a little awkwardly considering the demon clinging to the angel on each side. Tristan loomed protectively behind.

Poor Aziraphale, Crowley thought, he must be feeling quite crowded out. He tightened his grasp anyway.

He was a bit shamefacedly relieved that they weren’t going to any of their usual haunts. The last thing he wanted to do was associate one of their date spots—and he was determined to think of them as date spots at least in retrospect—with bloody Sandalphon and Dagon. Actually, almost the last thing he wanted to do was dine with anyone but Aziraphale anyway. Pretty much _ anything _ was the last thing he wanted to do if it didn’t involve taking Aziraphale alone somewhere really slap-bang, spoiling him to death with the most stupidly indulgent food, wine and liquor he could order, asking him if he really _ did _ propose the fake engagement mostly to make Crowley fall in love with him, if it was even needed, and then drag him home and...

…no, probably not a good idea to spontaneously combust in front of the Master of Torments and an archangel.

Only a few minutes later he was in a candlelit wood-panelled dining room, trying to decide whether to sit opposite Aziraphale for maximum viewing pleasure or next to him for incidental hand-holding. He picked the latter, and Tristan flanked the angel, which meant that Crowley had to stare at his stupid handsome face all evening. By common unspoken consent, they allowed Aziraphale to order both food and wine. He addressed their waiter by name, with friendly familiarity. The food was probably quite good, then.

Crowley dived for Aziraphale's hand and held it very visibly and pointedly on the table for Tristan’s benefit. The waiter, whose name was Samir, looked Crowley up and down in a practised way and nodded approvingly. “Nice to meet you at last,” he said. “I would have known you straight away. Zira’s told me a lot about you."

Good heavens_,_ excuse his French. Crowley glanced sideways at Aziraphale, who was blushing and avoiding his eyes, then conjured up his most charming smile. “Thank you for taking such good care of my husband,” he said, and was delighted to notice Aziraphale wriggle in something like happy panic. A country village where Aziraphale was playing house was one thing, but this was obviously a place Aziraphale went to regularly. This was dining. This was _ serious. _ Crowley thought it was a good idea to stake his claim.

“You ought to bring him to the theatre more often,” Samir said reprovingly. “Shame to leave a lovely man like that alone. Though with someone like you home, I suppose it’s no surprise he behaves himself. Lucky man."

Crowley didn’t usually notice waiters, except to be annoyed if Aziraphale abandoned all decorum and befriended them, but Samir was, he decided, a _ delightful _ young man. Especially as he could feel anger radiating from Tristan. Normally Crowley would have felt Samir was far too good looking to be on first name terms with Aziraphale, but this lad was obviously a sweetheart. “Oh, my Zira’s pretty much an angel anyway,” he crooned, squeezing Aziraphale's hand.

Aziraphale beamed. “Samir is an aspiring actor."

"I’m sure he will get a brilliant role _very soon_,” said Crowley firmly. He didn’t usually give blessings unless it was something he was trading off with Aziraphale, and giving one in front of Dagon was probably suicidal, but he did it anyway. This young man was going to rockhis next audition. “I just have a feeling.” He could do some random cursing on the way home to balance it out.

Samir gave him really quite an enchanting smile, gave an even more enchanting one to Tristan, and took their orders, or rather Aziraphale ordered for them all. Crowley sat in a kind of haze of smug bliss, wondering how many waiters and chefs in London had heard all about Aziraphale’s infernally handsome and charming—friend? Partner? _Husband?_

Tristan looked across from him and gave a snort that suggested that fake demonic sentiment didn’t work with him, and Crowley decided damn him—only hopefully not literally, because he did _ not _ want Sandalphon in Hell with him—he was going to watch Aziraphale eat aubergine and carrot cappuccino and sea trout and lemon tart and _ enjoy _ it, get comfortably sloshed, and try to salvage the rest of the evening.

“Do we really have to all pretend to carry on this farce to the point of playing Monopoly again?” Crowley demanded, as the soup was served. "Can’t we just eat, go home and talk like grown-up beings?

Aziraphale’s face crumpled wistfully. “I was looking forward to it. You never play Monopoly with me."

“Oh, you heartless demon,” said Nell, rushing to Aziraphale’s defence. “How could you let him down like that? Zira, darling, of course we will play as long as you like,” they said tenderly.

Tristan was turning over something in his hands that looked suspiciously like part of a waiter’s notepad, and which Crowley guessed had Samir’s number on it. He glared at it as if it was going to bite him. “Are you really surprised that Anthony lacks consideration for Zira?"

“I play chess with him,” Crowley said defensively. This was worse than he had been through in any dungeon interrogation. All three faces were turned accusingly at him. “And senet and petteia and go and mancala and—"

“Anything invented in the last few centuries?” Aziraphale asked icily, scooping up some aubergine foam with his spoon. There was a brief moment of reverent silence as he put the spoon in his lips and transferred the foam to his mouth, making a small noise of appreciation, before the conversation resumed.

“Angel, _ you _ are accusing _ me _ of not being up to date?"

“Didn’t you take credit for inventing modern family board games?” Nell asked, tapping a stern finger against Crowley's chin. “Shouldn’t you be regularly testing them?"

“There is a crisis hotline every Christmas for Monopoly related domestic disputes,” said Crowley, reflecting that this conversation had less and less pretence about their identities. "I _ deserved _ that commendation."

“That nice young man said you never take Zira to shows, either,” said Nell. Crowley started to plot bloody revenge against Dagon. “Sometimes I think you don’t appreciate what a lucky devil you are, having an angel devoted to you."

“I think Anthony prefers to play an entirely different kind of game to Monopoly,” Tristan said coldly. He ripped up the note. ”Like leaving his _ husband _ in the foyer and taking me outside to offer to perform depraved sexual acts."

Into the crashing silence, Nell asked, with great interest: “Ooh, any luck?"

“No,” Tristan said coldly.

Nell gave a disappointed shrug and stirred their soup with a portobello mushroom.

Aziraphale blinked, and blinked again. “That’s ridiculous.” His hand tightened on Crowley’s. “How could you even suggest such a thing?"

“I’m very sorry indeed, my friend,” Tristan said. “But I can’t allow this travesty to continue. I don’t know what he has done to keep you in his power, but perhaps knowing the truth will help you escape. I’m here to lend you any help you need."

“Angel,” Crowley said desperately, “It’s not like I actually expected him to say yes. I was trying to protect—"

“That," said Aziraphale, his voice falling into the room like something heavy dropped from high above, as the humans stopped moving and talking around them, “was a disgraceful way to behave."

“_ Angel _\--"

“I think you should apologise to poor Sandalphon at once. And how exactly were you expecting to gain the consent of his host if he did say yes? It’s Tristan’s body!"

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Tristan said in a voice that was more like rich rum than the voice Crowley was used to. “Except that he’s your husband, love, and I wouldn’t want to betray a sweetheart like you. Mind you, you deserve someone nicer than that grouch. He _ is _ an attractive grouch, though."

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Thank you, dear. I think so too.” Crowley felt a shock of relief running through him. He couldn’t be in _ that _ much trouble, especially since Aziraphale was still holding his hand. On the other hand, was he agreeing that Crowley was attractive, or that he deserved someone nicer? "Ah, Sandalphon, are you still in there?"

“Still here,” Sandalphon said nastily. “And you have some explaining to do, Principality."

“We’ve all been rather inconsiderate of you, haven’t we, my poor fellow?” Aziraphale said, his brow wrinkling in sympathy. Through his confusion, Crowley was conscious of the fizzing bubble of delighted infatuation he felt every time Aziraphale took him by surprise. “I know from my own experiences with possession that it’s sometimes hard to keep your own thoughts and feelings completely apart from your host. I mean, I’m not sure how long you’ve been sharing Tristan’s body—a few days, now? I wish I was sure when there was a change."

“About a week.” Sandalphon heisted, and then admitted, “Tristan has been very helpful in keeping me in character."

“You’ve been here for a _ week _?” Dagon gasped. “But you’ve been answering your emails.” Sandalphon shot them a furious glance, and they laughed. “Really, Sandy.” Crowley filed that name away for future reference. "If you’re worried about a fellow angel finding out the advantages of exchanging notes with the other side, I think Aziraphale here is the least likely one to report you to a higher authority."

“_You _ never told _ me _ you were downside either. How long have you been here?"

“_ Upside. _ A couple of weeks. I’m a demon, I don’t have to be honest. And you didn’t even recognise me. I’m very hurt.” Dagon lifted their cup and drained the rest of their soup. “You don’t get cooking like this in Hell. Everything tastes like the walls."

“Try to avoid truffles,” Crowley advised, his voice only a little croaky.

“I’ll bear that in mind, snake."

“You didn’t recognise me either,” Sandalphon protested, a little defensively.

“Guys, could we save your domestic dispute for another time?” asked Crowley, and then regretted it as they both turned blazing expressions on him. He shrunk back against Aziraphale. "Sorry."

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's hand reassuringly. “Things have been hard on you these last few millennia, haven’t they, Sandalphon?” he asked, gently. “Heaven isn’t always very understanding about these things. No wonder you get a bit smitey on occasion."

“I have no idea what you are talking about. When we get back to Heaven—"

“No rush for that.” Aziraphale delicately patted his mouth with his napkin. “You see, until I talked to Crowley, I had forgotten, and I suppose Heaven had too, that you were human once. Three and a half centuries in a human body, and plenty of children, and one for the lads, too, if I remember rightly. Then taken bodily up into Heaven, where there is no marriage or giving in marriage. Most of our original bodies weren’t built for it in any case, too many wings and flames and things, not so much of the other stuff. I don’t suppose anyone bothered to wonder if the lack of physical intimacy might be a problem for you."

Crowley gritted his teeth, waiting for the smiting. Maybe he could protect Aziraphale with his own body long enough for the angel to escape the planet. But there was only silence, as Sandalphon spluttered silently, until Dagon reached across for the archangel’s aubergine cappuccino.

“You’re not finishing that, are you? Mind if I have it?” Sandalphon shook his head in a dazed way, and Dagon claimed the soup.

“And then to be in a human body,” Aziraphale continued, his eyes welling up. "And I should say, a charming human that probably isn’t used to long stunts of chastity."

“Wasn’t having much luck with you, was I?” Tristan’s voice said. “Mind you, I didn’t know you were married."

“I apologise for being tactless. I’m not always very good at detecting flirtation,” Aziraphale said earnestly. Crowley choked a little, but didn’t dare say the words he was thinking aloud. "I have to say, it’s been difficult enough being in a corporation for all this time even _ without _ all that prior experience, although a lot of the feelings of temptation might be from being around Crowley too much.” Aziraphale flushed innocently. “He’s very good at being tempting."

Crowley felt he should say something. “Um. Thank you."

“You’re welcome, dearest. You don’t give yourself enough credit for being good at your job.” Aziraphale turned his radiant smile from Crowley to Dagon. “You must be very proud."

“Proud of Crowley? You must be off your rocker. I guess we already knew that by the way you’re hanging onto the idiot's hand. At least you’re cute.” Dagon finished the next bowl of soup and stared meaningfully at Crowley’s. Sighing, Crowley pushed his cup over. He’d lost his appetite anyway.

“It’s probably not much easier to find companionship in Hell,” Aziraphale said sympathetically. "I mean, I know sin is encouraged, but I can’t imagine any of you are keen on making yourself vulnerable to each other."

“You’ve got that right,” muttered Crowley. “Try explaining to your boss that you need a new cock because the last one got bitten off. Especially if your boss is a stingy fish like Dagon."

“I told you, you can’t have them unless you take proper care of them, or we’d constantly be supplying replacements. Corporation get awfully stroppy over single body parts. You'll just have to make do with only having one penis like everyone else, snake or not."

The demons turned to the angels, took in their expressions, and rolled their eyes in concert. “We’re _ joking_,” they chorused.

“Right,” said Aziraphale, recovering himself. “Well. It must all have been very hard on you, Sandalphon, especially with us being so affectionate around you and making it all too clear what our arrangement is. I’m very sorry, dear fellow, that Crowley’s misguided offer made your feelings of frustrated needs worse."

“Angels don't have needs. I don’t have to listen to this blasphemous rubbish.” Sandalphon rose to his, or rather Tristan’s, feet, and stormed out.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said, serenely sipping his soup. “He does seem a little upset. Give him time, my dear Dagon. It’s all going to have been a bit of a shock to him."

“Sandy’s always pissed off and finding mean ways to take it out on someone. It’s one of his best traits. I should have come to you from the start, not that useless serpent of mine.” Dagon leaned across and gave Aziraphale a hearty kiss on the cheek, and Crowley’s fist itched.

“_My serpent_, I think you’ll find,” Aziraphale said softly, and any remaining frustration Crowley was feeling dissolved at the melting look he was given.

“Yeah well, you’re welcome to him. Just as long as he gets that email in tonight. It had better be good, too, I _ sensed _ that blessing, and you’re going to suffer for it, Crowley."

Crowley nodded mutely.

Then Dagon was gone, and the humans resumed their chatter and movement, and Crowley was alone at the table with his angel, who was suddenly looking a lot less confident and a lot less certain of himself, almost as if his calmness had been an act.

“Crowley,” he said waveringly, staring at their linked hands. “You don’t mind that I spoke to Dagon in the interval and decided to take matters out of your hands?"

“Mind? You sneaky, brilliant bastard.” Not giving a fig for decorum or the feelings of the rest of the people in the room, Crowley reached across and kissed Aziraphale with all the hunger and fervour he had been holding back. Aziraphale sighed against his mouth and pressed the kiss back hard, tasting of rich earthy vegetables and cumin and of _angel._ When their lips parted, Crowley realised that not even that was enough to express all he was feeling, so he tried words once more:

“Marry me, darling?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Sorry for the unusual delay on this chapter. It was taking an angsty turn, and it really wasn't working.
> 
> 2) Also sorry for the lack of the boys alone in it. I promise I will make up for that next chapter...


	16. If love were liquid it would drown me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Marry you,” Aziraphale said, his mouth dry despite the kiss. “You mean, really marry you. An eternal commitment."

“Marry you,” Aziraphale said, his mouth dry despite the kiss. “You mean, really marry you. An eternal commitment."

“Why not, you glorious bastard? You can’t pretend to be too nice or loyal to Heaven. Anyone who can make Sandalphon flee with his wings down would make a glorious husband for a demon.” The lines around Crowley’s mouth were crinkled with laughter. “Satan, I adore you."

Aziraphale wanted to say: _Can't I just forget, for one moment, that we are on opposite sides? Do you have to remind me now, of all times?_ He wanted to say: _If you had let me forget, I might have said yes._ Even more, he wanted to say: _Yes._

“Marry you,” he said. “That’s—that’s ridiculous."

The laughter died on Crowley’s face as if Aziraphale had pinched a candle, and it hurt, having caused that. “What?” His hand tightened on Aziraphale’s so much it was painful. “Isn’t this what you were planning all along? It worked."

“_Planning_,” he repeated.

“Yeah, planning. We just sat through that blessed musical, remember? I’m not stupid. It’s okay. I love it when you forget to pretend to be pure and artless.” The amusement was returning, and somehow that hurt, too.

“I should have told you that the real reason I asked you to pose as my husband was to find out if there was a demon investigating us,” Aziraphale said coldly. “I apologise for my lapse and I am very sorry if it gave you false expectations."

“Angel, you’re not serious."

“I _am_ an angel."

Crowley’s face was expressionless now, his glasses reflecting Aziraphale to himself, so that the angel saw twice over how craven he looked, how prim and fluttering. Ridiculous that this demon in front of him could even want such weakness in his life; but then, Crowley was all alone, wasn’t he? Being a fallen angel was the definition of being love-starved. Watching him joke with Dagon had been the closest Aziraphale had ever seen him showing anything like affinity with anyone but himself, and he knew the two demons would throw each other to the Pits if necessary. No wonder Crowley clung to the only steady source of affection he had found since he had Fallen.

“Yes. Yes, you are an angel, and I no longer am.” Crowley said, his voice as blank and fragile as a piece of glass. “I think we established that long ago. It didn’t seem to make much difference when you were drawing hearts on the back of my hand a little while ago."

“Oh,” said Samir, collecting the soup bowls and beaming at them. They turned at him, startled by his presence. “Zira, you must be the softest thing in existence. _Hearts._” Aziraphale and Crowley both turned bright red. “Did you scare your friends off by being too lovey-dovey?"

“Something like that,” said Crowley.

“Did the tall bloke—"

“In denial,” Crowley said cruelly. “Sorry, don’t wait for a call."

“Oh, you’re joking. He was broadcasting on all frequencies.” Samir seemed to have decided Crowley was a friend, which on other occasions would be charming. Right now, Aziraphale really wished the young man would leave.

“Bit of a split personality, that one,” Crowley said.”There are a lot of mixed signals around here."

“That lady wasn’t his _wife_?"

“Not yet,” said Crowley, and grinned nastily. “They’re working on it."

“Bloody _hell._ That’s what I get for chasing old guys.” Samir suddenly seemed to realise how unprofessional he was being, and also that he was not talking to a couple in the first flush of youth. “Ah, are they coming back? Should I cancel their orders?"

“I’m sorry, dear boy. Would you mind cancelling everything?” Aziraphale said. “I am so _very_ sorry for the inconvenience. Please let the chef know that it was absolutely delicious and apologise for me."

“In a hurry to get home, are you?” Samir seemed on the verge of winking and saying _Oo-er, missus_, and Aziraphale was profoundly grateful he didn’t. “I’ll sort it. You’re a favourite here. Chef says he never feels as appreciated as when you’re dining."

“Thanks,” Crowley said briefly, and deposited what would be a frankly ridiculous amount of cash on the table even if all four of them had had three courses and expensive wine. Samir stared at him as if suddenly wondering if the two of them were mafioso. “Let’s go, angel.” He sprang to his feet and hauled Aziraphale to his, hustling him out with a hand around his elbow.

Neither spoke until they reached the Bentley. Crowley towed Aziraphale to the passenger side, opened the door and handed him in as if that was automatic by now, and then flung himself around the car and into his own seat. Then he laid his head against the steering wheel, his glasses hitting it with a thunk.

“I thought it was what you wanted,” he said. “I thought—oh, what does it fucking matter? I was being _ridiculous._"

Aziraphale was annoyed at his lips for being so human and corporeal and dry. He licked them, but his tongue felt like sandpaper. “Dearest, please don’t be like this.” He ached to reach over and ruffle Crowley’s hair, and clasped his hands together on his lap. “You seemed to be having fun."

“I was. More than fun, that’s the problem. What did you think was going to happen? We’d sort things out with the local demon, play some board games have the Christmas party, and I’d go back to London like nothing happened? Meet up for drinks and dinner sometimes, feed the flipping ducks? Just go on as usual?"

“I suppose I did. Well, not quite as usual. I’ve liked—I’ve liked being closer.” The understatement rubbed against his throat like a cheese grater.

“So we kiss goodnight and I get to be dearest instead of just dear, but otherwise business as usual? I thought you were _enjoying_ having me around."

“I always do, Crowley. Always did."

“You _kissed_ me. Properly. With no one to see. You said you love me.” Crowley’s head was still buried against the wheel.

“I do love you.” Why did he feel so wretched? He was saying something beautiful and perfect that he had longed to say for centuries, for thousands of years, knowing now it was wanted, and it hurt to say it. He had made a mess of things somehow instead.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you _hopelessly_,” Crowley said, and with his head against the steering wheel it looked and sounded like he was saying it to the Bentley, and it made a semi-hysterical strangled laugh make its way out of Aziraphale’s throat. “It’s not fucking funny."

“No, it’s not."

“It was easier when I didn’t have hope, rather than having it handed out and taken away again.” So bitter, and Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to produce enough salt to balance it, not when Crowley was so dear and so wounded.

Aziraphale sought an adequate apology, didn’t find one. Fell back on confession. “Dagon thinks I am going to Fall."

“_What_?” He finally lifted his head, pulled off his glasses, looked at him with bulging serpentine eyes.

“They said so when you were outside with Tris—with Sandalphon. They were quite nice about it. Said Hell’s not too bad, they’ll look after me, let my snake slither over me all I like—I’m sorry my dear, their words, not mine—all I like, not have to answer to Gabriel anymore. Perhaps it wouldn’t _be_ too bad.” He swallowed. “That thought is the worst of all, really. How mixed up have I become that that doesn’t seem too bad as long as I get to be with you? Crowley, I _love_ being an angel. I don’t want to go back to Heaven, harps never suited me, but I love being an angel among humans. Maybe I’m just selfish."

“You’re not going to Fall,” Crowley said, grasping his shoulder. “I won’t let you."

“You say that as if you had any control over it.” Aziraphale sighed. “You’re not exactly on the Board of Light. We’re pushing things as it is. Even further if we became more—physical. Marriage would be something else, though. Marriage would be a clear choice. Choosing a demon over Heaven.” He swallowed. “Which is exactly why you want it, am I right? To force the choice."

“And you’re not ready for that.” Crowley reached out, and with that the terrible sense of distance between them was gone, Aziraphale was cradled close, lips against his forehead, and he was _forgiven._ An angel forgiven by a demon. Aziraphale's heart ached with the strange twisted Grace of it. He slipped his hands under the folds of the new red silk scarf, spread his fingers against Crowley’s firm chest, trying to project his warmth through the thin shirt. For a moment he felt the burning bite of the chain hidden under Crowley’s shirt. Then Crowley shifted slightly and he couldn’t feel it anymore.

“Maybe you never will be ready,” Crowley said. "But so long as you love me, it’s all right. For Hell’s sake, as long as you _tolerated_ me being around and smiled at me sometimes I could bear it. This is more than I ever hoped for."

“More than I hoped, too."

“I always was a greedy bastard. _Invidia_. Hard to be proud of being sinful when it hurts so fucking much to want what you can’t have."

“I’m sorry."

“Not your fault. I should have realised what I was asking. I mean, it’s not _unheard_ of for demons to marry humans, even though it doesn’t usually end up well. It’s your lot that have the hang up about nothing getting between you and the Almighty, even though I don’t think She ever actually bothered to say anything on the matter. And I guess the Nephelim thing traumatised everyone."

“Poor Sandalphon,” Aziraphale said absently.

“You were awfully cruel in your gentle way. It almost made me feel sorry for him,” Crowley said, then said in a slightly different tone of voice, “Sandalphon. I had forgotten Sandalphon."

“How could you?"

“Well, not precisely forgotten but—listen, Aziraphale, this is important. Don’t confuse Dagon being nice to you with Dagon being _kind_. Don’t confuse Dagon being pleasant company when they want to with Dagon being _good_. Especially, don’t confuse Dagon liking you with Dagon not being happy to watch you burn in hellfire for eternity. They are the Master of Torments. They enjoy suffering. But they are _also_ the Lord of the Files, and they keep their contracts."

“I always thought that was an odd combination."

“How can you say that, my lazy darling angel? You hate paperwork worse than any other torture.”

Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley kissed his hairline with fierce affection. “I’ll do all your paperwork forever if it will make you happy, sweetheart."

“You will _not_. I have not had an error in my taxes in all the time I have paid them. You’re not getting near them."

“My point. You have derailed my point. My point is that I’m not on the Board of Light, Sandalphon is."

“How is that your point?” Aziraphale asked, a little aggrieved. "You were talking about Dagon. Dagon’s not a Board Member."

“Who else is on it right now?"

Aziraphale wriggled around a bit. He was uncomfortable anyway, leaning across the car seat like that. Turning slightly to face away from Crowley, feeling arms wrapped around his chest, felt comfortable and protected, loved the contrast between his body and Crowley’s sharp angles. So many new ways to be close, so many ways to have contact and show affection, and how could he give them up? He lifted his hands and began to count.

“The Metatron is the Head of the Board and Recording Angel. Then Gabriel."

“Forget _him._"

“Michael, Raphael, Uriel, Saraqael, Raguel and Remiel.”

“Michael used to be a friend of mine, which is not a good thing. I don’t know that she won’t take the chance to squash me like a bug.” Crowley frowned, no doubt thinking of all the art of Michael vanquishing serpents. “Uriel is as hard as fucking iron."

“Really, Crowley, language. She’s the Prince of Repentance, you know."

“Only helps if we actually repent, which is of no good to us. I’m damned—blessed—_extinct_ if I repent of wanting you. And she’s also Lord of Tartarus, had you forgotten?” He frowned. “Raguel is a bastard. Don’t know Saraqael or Ramiel or—well, I _met_ the Metratron at Tadfield, probably not our biggest fan. That kid’s right, he sounds like a Transformer. Don’t know why I didn’t know him before."

“He’s Sandalphon’s twin brother."

Crowley remembered the beautiful youth made of blue fire. “You’re kidding me."

"Caused a bit of a ruckus when the Almighty appointed him Highest Angel and Voice of God, I can tell you."

“No way. So after asking us to venerate the humans caused the mass Fall, She just went ahead and appointed a human Highest Angel? Wow, She really likes to sprinkle salt in wounds."

“Perhaps it was a test,” Aziraphale said uncomfortably, feeling as always that this irritating red-headed thing had a talent for voicing thoughts he tried not to have. “Crowley, you really can’t be thinking about facing down the Board of Light."

“Nah. Just insurance."

“You and your insurance.”

“Believe me, darling, live in Hell long enough and you get used to arranging insurance for every possibility. At least Dagon taught me that. Always have fallbacks."

Aziraphale sighed and lifted Crowley’s hand, kissed the knuckles one by one, feeling the longing bloom in his own heart with each kiss. “Beloved, this isn’t… I know you are an optimist, but really…” The sadness swelled along with the longing. "So, what do you want to do now? We can’t sit here forever,’’ he added, although actually he didn’t want to move, not while he was being held.

“I think most of my plans for the night are out of the window. I’m assuming you aren’t up for being taken back to the flat and letting me have my way with you until you scream to the heavens."

“_Crowley_,” he protested faintly, trying not to respond too much.

“Worth a shot. Sit up a sec, angel, I’m texting Dagon."

“Hmm?” It wasn’t what he had expected, certainly not with the steely determination in Crowley's voice. He pushed himself to give Crowley access to his phone. “Why?"

“Dagon would love you to Fall, especially if they get some of the credit. A real fang in their maw, a new Fallen angel. But there’s something they want more."

“The contract,” Aziraphale said suspiciously, worrying once more.

“I told you, it’s hilarious. I just need permission to tell you some of it.” Crowley's phone clanged like the gates to Mount Etna and he checked the screen. “Right.” There was a grin behind the words. Not a nice one. “I’m going to have to do a bloody twelve-page report as my email to make up for it, but I’ve got the go-ahead. Angel, you’re the being of love. You must have done matchmaking before. How do you feel about helping a demon seduce an angel?"

Aziraphale blinked, confused. “I’ve been trying pretty hard _not_ to help, despite your efforts."

“Wrong demon and angel.” Crowley was grinning. “Didn’t you wonder why Dagon was so _very_ interested in our mar—“ He bit the word down hard. “Relationship,” he amended, in a more subdued way.

“_No._"

“They are both vicious sadists, obsessed with smiting and torments. Match made in Heaven and Hell, I’d say."

“You’re saying _Dagon_ is in love with _Sandalphon_?"

“I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s just say that Dagon really likes the idea of getting with an angel, and they and Sandy have a lot in common."

Aziraphale didn’t want to have the thought, it seemed far too, well, demonic. It voiced itself anyway. “If Sandalphon compromises himself, we might just have a reluctant ally. And if the Metatron is loyal to him…"

“Now you’re talking.” Crowley twisted with inhuman litheness until he was lying halfway across his lap and facing up at him. “Kiss me again, angel? You can give me that much."

Aziraphale bent his head and kissed him. It wasn’t like kissing earlier in the master bedroom, or even across the table. He could feel Crowley’s restraint, the fear of deepening too much or demanding too much, restricting the kiss to the careful movement of lips. Somehow the maddening softness of it was even more like liquid fire, tempting Aziraphale to respond with ferocity and claim the demon’s mouth, to break down both of their control, to kiss and kiss until they forgot all prudence, forgot that they were practically in public, cast away all thought of consequences...

Temptation. That was the whole problem. He broke away with a gasp, and Crowley hissed as if in pain.

“Raphael,” Aziraphale said.

“_What_? If you are calling out a bloody angel’s name, then—"

“Hush.” Aziraphale kissed the corner of his mouth, chastely and gently. “Don’t be silly. You’re all I want in the world."

Crowley blinked, looking somewhere between reassured and collapsed into a puddle. “Then why?"

“I think,” Aziraphale said, “something might be done with Raphael."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The list of angels is taken from the list of archangels/princes in the Book of Enoch.
> 
> 2) Speaking of which, the Metatron should have been Enoch. Sandalphon, the other twin angel, should have been Elijah. Oops. Oh, well.
> 
> 3) Title, continuing the "This is a Dagon fic so every chapter has to be Kylie Minogue lyrics" theme, is from _Chocolate_.
> 
> 4) Speaking of which, a fair amount of excised text from a first draft from this chapter is going to end up in an already half-written one or two shot (no, seriously, not 15+ chapters) with the boys + Dagon because OMG they are fun to write.


	17. To be hailed as a hero, branded a fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When in doubt, Aziraphale pulls out his books and does research.
> 
> Crowley is not great at self-denial. He's better at being a rescuer.

Crowley tried to stand still without drifting or circling too much as Aziraphale handed him down additions to the growing stack of books in his arms. “I don’t even know what we are doing back here."

“Research, dear. On demon spouses."

“I’m not sure Dagon has marriage in mind. Besides, you know I could just go straight to the source? I’ve got Osmedai and Lilith’s numbers in my phone contacts."

“I don’t think we should involve Hell any more than we have already."

“Why not? They’ll think it’s hysterical."

“That’s exactly my point. I’m not exposing Sandalphon to any more ridicule than is strictly necessary. He is still part of my team and a fellow angel, whatever you may think of him."

“Sodom really was pleasant in the winter,” Crowley muttered, and Aziraphale sighed, his air of self-righteousness fading a bit. “What’s this one? _Демон_. My Russian is a bit rusty, but that’s clear enough.” He set the pile of books down and sat in an armchair, opening a slim volume bristling with bookmarks.

> A fallen angel once was winging
> 
> over a sinful Earth his way
> 
> And memory was ever bringing
> 
> the vision of a happier day
> 
> Telling an unforgotten story
> 
> How once in realms of light and glory
> 
> A seraph pure and bright he shone[^1]

“Huh."

“Perhaps not that one, my dearest,” Aziraphale said gently, climbing down and taking the book from him, before returning to the stepladder and replacing it on the shelf.

“Didn’t like shining much anyway,” he muttered. “Terrible aesthetic. Like fairy lights."

“You were beautiful then and you are more beautiful now, and that is a silly poem and won’t help us. Here, hold these.” Aziraphale passed over a heap of paperbacks, and Crowley accepted them meekly, feeling like steam was coming out of his ears.

He tried to distract himself by reading the titles of the lurid volumes.

“_Demons in my Marriage Bed; Total Deliverance from Spirit Wives and Husbands: Sex Demons of the Night; Total Deliverance from Spirit Husband and Spirit Wife, Incubus and Succubus Demons: Incubus Demons and All Sex Demons of the Night; Be Free From Spirit Spouses; Deliverance from Incubus & Succubus: Sex Demons of the Night._ Ah, there seems to be a theme here.” He bit his lip. “Either you are even more determined not to marry me than I thought, or I’m going to have to pop down to Temptations and start strangling some incubi with their own bloody… ah, tails."

“You know I collect unusual religious texts."

“For spicy reading at night, it seems. Anyway, I think this is exactly the wrong theme. Shouldn’t we be looking for books encouraging sex with demons? I think that’s what you should be collecting anyway. I could help you start a collection.” He leered, but the effect was a bit wasted as Aziraphale had his back turned.

“I thought it might be useful to learn some of Sandalphon’s defences to demonic seduction beforehand so we can develop some strategies to get around them,” Aziraphale said serenely.

“Aziraphale, that is one of the least angelic things I’ve ever heard you say,” Crowley breathed, nearly overcome. To prevent himself from flinging himself at Aziraphale and risking a nasty tumble, and aware that his chances of a nicer tumble were currently quite low, he returned his attention to the books.

“_Seven Ways Demons Enter a Person and Ten Ways How They Exit_. Well, not many points for grammar, but the theme is promising. Want a read, angel?"

“Oh, hush."

"_A powerful group of the evilest demons out of hell have been prowling the earth for ages, tormenting mankind under the cloak of invincibility and darkness._ Seriously, you’d think I wasn’t the only one doing any work Up Here this century, the way these humans carry on. _How to break demonic contracts_—oh, good luck with that, this is Dagon we are talking about."

“You’re right, though, I don’t think the dear thing is necessarily aiming at marriage."

“Angel, you clearly have no idea how weird it is hearing you refer to Dagon as a dear thing.” He pouted at Aziraphale’s back. “I don’t mind you calling humans dear, at least not much, but I get to be your only dear demon."

“Oh, _dearest_,” Aziraphale said, coming down from the stepladder at last, and backing up the _dearest_ with an embrace. Crowley made an inarticulate noise and buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck, breathing in his scent for a moment, feeling enveloped in sturdy heat. He wished Aziraphale had changed back into cashmere after the disastrous dinner, so there were fewer layers, more softness between him and the warm softness that was Aziraphale. He supposed they should go back to the homestay flat; Aziraphale actually _bought_ his clothes and would want his things. But he just wanted to stay in the bookshop, where there would be no intruders at night.

“Thanks for doing this, angel,” he said. “I’m rubbish at research. And I know you have a lot more to lose than I do."

“I’m not so sure about that. What _do_ you have to lose? Because I don’t believe Dagon makes contracts without advantage. You have permission to tell me now?"

Crowley winced. “Two centuries of filing in the archives. Dagon is always short on staff. Remember those documents you gave me on every known cataloguing system on Earth? Dagon decided they were _too simple_ and invented their own.” He decided it was better not to mention that Dagon also thought it was amusing to hide ichor-sucking worms among the stacks.

Instead, Crowley pressed closer into the embrace, winding his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, marvelling at how naturally his arms seemed to settle above cushioned hips, as if the Almighty had planned their corporations to fit together, blasphemous thought. “Two hundred years is nothing, considering how long we have,” he said. It was a lie, now that he had permission to hold hands and hug and kiss goodnight, even a few hours apart seemed longer than millennia before. “And you’ll be safe whether Dagon gets his way or not, whether you Fall—and you _won’t_ Fall—or not."

“Oh, darling. You promised all that _filing_ just to protect me?” Aziraphale leaned back a little, looked up at him, the lashes above perfect water-coloured round eyes fluttering shyly and adoringly, and the blood left Crowley’s head with a rush.

“I’ll always protect you, Aziraphale,” he breathed, saying what he had always tried to communicate without words and was now free to say. "You should know by now that there is nothing I won’t do to keep you safe and happy, angel. I learned to make you tea just how you like, I drove through fire for you. I’ll do _anything_."

“My miraculous rescuer,” sighed Aziraphale, as if it was also words held incompletely below the surface for centuries, and his mouth lifted, lips parting enticingly, just the hint of a visible tongue touching them.

Aziraphale saying those exact words with that expression had haunted Crowley's fantasies for _millennia_ and now it was not only real but accompanied by arms around each other and chests pressed close and he should step away _right now_ before it became too obvious what kind of fantasies they were and what they led to, his body was already responding out of long habit. He needed to release his grip on this perfect soft waist, respect the safe boundaries they had established, and douse himself with infernal cold water before...

Aziraphale tipped his face up further and brushed his lips against his and Crowley had just enough thought left to wonder if this hadn’t been just _his_ fantasy before he was clutching Aziraphale’s waist closer and pushing his lips apart with his and kissing him as if he was starving, starving for the velvet mouth, the contact between them, the incredible heady feeling of being admired and longed for and _needed_, oh by existence needed so _much_ and by Aziraphale, his golden, clever, brilliant, kind, frustrating, joyful—

“My—“ Crowley whispered against Aziraphale’s mouth and wasn’t sure what was going to come next because there were too many words, my love, my friend, my angel, my everything. Before his stumbling tongue could find the right word, Aziraphale responded even more quietly:

“Yours."

And he was gone, he was lost, crowding Aziraphale against the bookshelf, kissing him over and over, hoping the angel would have some control because he couldn’t. Not as long as beloved hands were catching in his hair, lips still parting eagerly, a cushioned hip pressed against him where he was aching and twitching and Satan, oh Satan, he could feel for one moment his thigh brushing against answering heat and hardness. To finally know for sure his desire was matched, his perfect angel wanted him as well. Crowley was in danger of coming untouched, it was all too much...

...too much. Aziraphale had been clear about wanting to be able to say no if Heaven asked. Crowley yanked his mouth away and managed to gently knock Aziraphale’s hands aside, stepping back, gasping for breath, willing a quick miracle.

Crowley barely bent nearly double with his hands on his thighs, pulling himself back under control, and despite himself, he began to laugh. He calmed down under Aziraphale’s outraged look, as the angel straightened his clothes and, presumably, fixed his own problem. “Sorry, angel. But maybe the books are a waste of time "

“Really, Crowley, I—“ And then the laughter bubbled up in Aziraphale as well. “Maybe Dagon could offer to file for Sandalphon.” That set Crowley off again, and the two of them laughed, close to tears. for a moment Crawly was afraid they were hysterical. He looked up and saw the warmth in Aziraphale’s eyes and realised it was all right.

“It’s a point, though. Maybe we need to put Sandalphon in danger so Dagon can, um."

“Saunter in like a big bad demon and save him?” Aziraphale asked innocently.

“Um. Yeah. Only… If Dagon sees an angel in trouble, they would probably just laugh."

“They seem quite protective of _me._"

“If you go all wide-eyed like that at the thought of Dagon protecting you I’ll—“ Crowley’s brain caught up in time for once and warned him that jokes about divorce would be ill-timed. “Never rescue you again."

“You don’t mean that,” Aziraphale said happily. “My hero."

“Satan, don’t start that again, I’ll discorporate."

There was a knock on the door. Crowley started to helpfully yell “We’re closed,” but Aziraphale hushed him with a finger over his lips.

“Backroom,” he hissed.

“What?"

“I think it’s Raphael."

“_What_?"

"I wasn’t expecting her until tomorrow. Backroom."

Crowley gave him a terrified look, but Aziraphale could presumably sense angelic presence better than he could, so he fled and switched into his tallest snake shape for good measure.

“Raphael, my dear. So good of you to come,” Aziraphale was saying, nervous and flustered, but less so than Crowley would expect him to be when talking to an archangel. He racked his brains, trying to remember anything about Raphael, but kept being distracted by the reasons Raphael was his favourite Ninja Turtle.

“Hello, Aziraphale. So what is so important that you can’t talk to me about upstairs?” She didn’t sound particularly annoyed, and definitely not austere. She sounded, well, buoyant with curiosity. “And why aren’t you offering me tea? Gabriel says you always offer tea."

Aziraphale sighed, huffed, stuttered a bit, and then said a bit weakly, “Would you be horrified if I said, forbidden love? Between an angel and a demon?"

Crowley’s little snake heart almost stopped. He hadn’t expected Aziraphale to be so direct. He had expected him to dance around the subject, making tea in the kitchenette. He was going to come right out and say Dagon had a crush on Sandalphon. Raphael was going to start smiting any minute.

“_Ooh._ Tell me more.” He could hear a grin in her voice, which was the last thing he expected. “You kissed the demon Crowley, right?"

Aziraphale spluttered, and Crowley went into automatic defence mode, switching to human form and stumbling out of the back room, ready to fling himself protectively between them. He had just a moment to take in the sight of a curvy redhead before a flash of lightning came down from the ceiling. Smiting already… no, wait.

No smiting. Angelic presence. The lightning formed into a tall, willowy figure, elegantly and austerely clad in grey.

“Raphael, Aziraphale, what is going on here?” An eyebrow arched in severe inquiry. “Why are you here, demon?"

It was all too much.

“Mummy?” he croaked. Then, as three aghast angels turned to him, he made a desperate attempt to pull himself together.

“I mean, greetings, archangel Michael."

[^1: Mikhail Lermontov, _The Demon_, 1839. Long poem depicting the tragic love story between a demon and a human girl. The demon falls madly in love with her, but when she finally kisses him, she dies—God forgives her because she was loving, and an angel carries her to Heaven, leaving the demon alone for eternity without hope of love. Using [Robert Burness’s translation](https://archive.org/details/demonthe00lermrich).

1) I am stealing the magnificent casting of Raphael as Catherine Tate from Captain LeBubble’s brilliant [Plan Me No Plans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20440988/) which you should read because it will give you every kind of joy. Thank you, dearest!

2) Many angels were born from Michael’s tears. Many thanks to my beloved Wattpad _Good Omens_ fam for requesting that Crowley therefore accidentally addresses her as Mummy.

3) Title from Dreams (of an Impossible Princess). Kylie Minogue, as usual, because Dagon.


	18. Nothing left to hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get engaged.

“So that is the demon serpent, who brought evil into the world, has tormented it for millennia, and helped thwart Armageddon?” Raphael asked, with interest, looking at the vaguely human shaped being curled into a foetal position on the couch.

Aziraphale handed her a cup of tea. “Yes, I’m afraid so."

“And he’s one of yours, Michael?"

“My treacherous child, born from my tears at the beauty of the universe,” she said coldly. “A disappointment."

Crowley whimpered, and Aziraphale sat beside him and patted his back soothingly. “I made you some tea, if you uncurl a bit. Why didn’t you mention that Michael was your parent?” He looked as sternly as he could manage at Michael. “And that was a little unkind, my Lord."

“I always wondered how that worked,” Raphael said, obviously trying to soothe things over. “Did you start crying and your tears just turned into flaming serpents and things? Must have been a shock. I would've wet myself."

Michael’s serenity flickered just a little. “I did not question the Almighty’s judgement. We needed more staff. We had a lot of galaxies to create just then.” She sipped her tea. “Is it supposed to taste like this?"

“I can add milk and sugar, if you like,” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands apologetically.

“Would that help?"

“It’s delicious,” Raphael said firmly, taking a brave sip and shuddering slightly.

“Aziraphale, why are you stroking a demon’s back?” Michael asked coldly. “You are not a fallen angel. Yet."

Aziraphale withdrew his hand guiltily. “Compassion is a virtue?” he suggested.

“Come on now, Michael, he’s not the only one with contacts Down There,” Raphael said cheerfully. “We’re all on the same side—well, not the same side, exactly, but we’re all doing our bit in the Almighty’s plan."

Aziraphale expected Michael to object. Instead she looked down for a brief second, and then up. “I know that word from above was that neither of them were to be punished, so I admit that… they might be acting in accordance with the Ineffable Plan.” She sighed. “Aziraphale, beloved Principality, you should have confided in us."

“I _tried._” And then, not knowing where the courage had come from, “Crowley was the only one who cared. And some humans."

“I would've listened,” Raphael objected.

“I’m sorry, my Lord. You were busy preparing the Last Trumpet anyway. I tried going higher."

The other two angels exchanged glances, and Raphael mouthed “_Metatron_, honestly, what a wanker," at Michael, who drew herself up with even more dignity and pretended not to notice.

“Anyway. Ah. Speaking of fallen angels.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Are carnal relations in themselves considered a problem under current thinking?"

The shape on the couch next to him tensed.

Raphael’s shoulders started to shake. “What—what have you two—oh dear. I mean, I figured you had to be closer friends than you should, you were holding hands at the air base, but… You’re shagging?"

Aziraphale found himself sitting next to a very embarrassedly hissing snake, which made Raphael laugh even harder. Michael, on the other hand, arched _both_ eyebrows, the final sign of outrage and incipient smiting.

“No!” Aziraphale said hastily. “The closest we have come has been kissing each other’s mouths, which you know as well as I do is a perfectly acceptable and chaste form of greeting and respect among humans.” I was perfectly true, he told himself, and he couldn’t expect two pure angels who resided in Heaven to know much about the difference between human degrees of kissing. Michael and Raphael popped down more than the others, perhaps, but to deliver messages and rescues rather hang around and make best friends with tight trousers and distractingly swishy gaits. He tried to ignore the quirk of Raphael’s lips.

“You’re not meant to respect demons in the first place,” said Michael. “You’re meant to thwart them. Preferably wrestle them and cast them down into pits of fire. I can give you lessons, if you like."

Crowley slithered onto Aziraphale’s lap and wrapped around his arm, and Aziraphale petted him protectively.

“Oh, give it a rest, Mikey,” said Raphael. “We can’t all be the Invincible Prince and Terror of the Evil Spirits like you. Look at Aziraphale, do you think he could cast anyone into pits of fire, especially this sweet little serpent?” She reached over and tickled Crowley’s giant nose with a fingertip. He looked at her as if contemplating biting her, and Aziraphale hastily soothed him with two fingers down his spine.

“Demons are our siblings still.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Your _child_, Father of Angels."

“My traitor,” Michael said bitterly. “Who took other brothers and sisters and children down with him with his silver tongue and _questioning._ And now we may lose you to him as well."

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Well, that’s the question. I’m asking for—for a friend.” Truthfulness caught up at last, and he added: “_And_ myself."

Michael sighed. “Aziraphale, I’m sorry we’ve left you on Earth so long. Having a body for all his time must be a burden to you. Perhaps it is time to bring you home."

“No—no. The Almighty was very clear about the role she wanted for me. And,” Aziraphale said, amazed at his own courage, “I have to say I’ve carried it out very well _despite_ the active non-assisistance of Heaven in thwarting the Antichrist."

The two archangels exchanged glances once again. Aziraphale noted with interest that there seemed to be a lot of sympathetic glance-exchanging between them.

“God does seem to be quite happy with the way things shook down,” Raphael said. “And as Guardian of Humanity and Angel of Science and Knowledge, I have to admit it was my preferred outcome as well. Hey, Aziraphale, how come Gabriel got you? You seem more like my match. Look at all these lovely books.” She reached out, picked up a volume, and stared at the title. _How to Tell if You Have a Demonic Husband or Wife_. Um, Aziraphale, are you currently under any doubts?” She flipped it open. “Oh, look, here’s some signs. _Smelly private parts._ Well, I’m not going there. _Dreaming of shopping, making breakfast or sitting on a throne._ Really?” Aziraphale tried not to think of Crowley’s throne. "_Unexplained rudeness and toughness towards anyone of the opposite sex that may be attracted to you._"

“I try never to be rude to anyone who is attracted to me,” Aziraphale said stiffly.

“Jussst obliviousssss,” hissed Crowley.

“Thank you for joining the conversation at last, demon,” said Raphael. 'You know, you could just tell the poor boy whether you’re married to him or not so he doesn’t have to go through books to find work it out. Or isn’t that properly demonic? Oh, look, it says here that up to 70% of Christian women unknowingly have demonic spouses. That can’t be right, can it? Even if they accidentally added a zero. There’s way more humans than there are hosts."

“Please stop reading that nonsense, Raphael,” said Michael. “Aziraphale, I’m ashamed of you for owning it."

“I _like_ books,” said Aziraphale, aware it was somewhat like saying he liked existing.

“_Unexplained wedding ring._” Raphael’s hand unexpectedly darted out and caught Aziraphale’s, examining it carefully, as if she was peering under the skin. “Hmm, nothing there. Guess you’re fine."

“What if there had been?” Aziraphale asked carefully.

“Angels don’t get married, sweetie.” Raphael patted his hand sympathetically. "There’s no marrying or giving in marriage in Heaven, although it looks like Hell is right into it, looking at these books."

“I don’t reside in Heaven."

“That’s beside the point,” said Michael, although she looked oddly unsettled for her. “Why-why would an angel even want to get married?” Not just unsettled. Almost flustered.

Aziraphale hadn’t hung around with Crowley for thousands of years without picking up the ability to ask awkward questions. “But it’s just a tradition. There’s no actual rule against it, is there? We already make an exception for the Swedenborgians."

“_Luxuria_ is a mortal sin,” said Michael, with strange gentleness. “We can’t risk your precious soul."

“It’s only _luxuria_ if it interferes with the love of God,” Aziraphale argued desperately. "But if desire is part of love of the magnificent creations of the Almighty, isn' it different?"

“This is my authority area as Angel of Love and Joy,” Raphael said. “I say, go for it. If you come up against the Board of Light, you have my vote."

“_Raphael_,” said Michael helplessly.

“Oh, come on, darling. We might reform a demon. Can’t see anyone being devotedly loved by this creampuff without showing a bit of a spark of goodness. And—he betrayed Satan."

“He’s a demon. Betrayal is in his nature."

“He was an angel once. _Your child._ Look, at least let me ask Daniel. Not much good me being the supervisor of the Angel of Marriage if I can’t even ask him for blessing on a marriage."

“Daniel is not on the Board. He’s not even an archangel. He’s a _Principality._"

“Yeah, and so he knows more about human customs like marriage than us. Come on, Mikey. We could at least ask. Michael the Merciful, Prince of Mercy,” she added in a pleading, sing-song tone.

There was a long silence, in which Aziraphale noticed that Raphael was grasping Michael’s hand rather warmly, looking at her with long, copper-ringed green eyes, and then suddenly Michael relented. “We can talk to him. Aziraphale—I advise you to wait for holy marriage, if marriage to a demon can even be _considered_ holy. At least sex within marriage is more likely to be sanctified than, sex in, ah..."

“The course of normal daily activities like unshelving books?” Aziraphale swallowed hard. “What a ridiculous idea. I’m an angel."

“Idea wouldn’t even occur to us. Thank you for the tea,” Raphael said warmly. “We’ll let you know how it went. Don’t do anything funny without checking in.”

The lightning flashed, and they were gone, apparently not hearing Aziraphale’s hurried, “But what about my _friend_?”

Or maybe one of them had. Raphael returned suddenly and said, “Whisper your friend’s name in my shell-like ear?"

“Sandalphon."

She spluttered a bit in embarrassment, but then suddenly breathed, “Ohhh. Oh, the human. I see,” and vanished.

Aziraphale stared at the point where she had been.

“Crowley, my dearest,” he said softly, “I think we possibly may have made the first steps towards permission to _get married._"

The snake reformed quickly into a lanky figure on his lap, hands gripping his forearms, face inches from his own and looking into his eyes with burning golden ones. “You will, then? If you have permission?"

“Crowley, yes of c—“ Aziraphale's words were muffled by Crowley’s lips and tongue, and he had just enough awareness left to be glad that he didn’t actually have to breathe as he was pressed back against the couch.

“Love me?” Crowley demanded.

“_Yes._"

“Mine?” His voice was fervent and possessive, but there were little lines of anxiety around his eyes, as if he wasn’t sure, even now.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered, tracing his mouth gently with a fingertip.

“Then even if they say no, even if this is all I have, I am happy.” Crowley wound his arms around his neck and buried his face against his hair. “Even if all I can do is buy you dinner and make you tea and love you for an eternity, I’m happy, as long as you _want_ me."

Aziraphale kissed him, very tenderly and slowly this time, exploring his mouth gently with his tongue. Time seemed to flow into honey, slow and languid, focusing on the closeness, the freedom to be affectionate and loving. Crowley echoed his pace, and they kissed and kissed. They only paused when the phone in Crowley’s pocket began to ring. Aziraphale was guiltily aware that he detected it from the vibration before the ringtone, and that his hands must have wandered more than he meant.

“Oh, fuck, that’s Dagon’s ringtone again. Gotta get that. Hang on."

Still on Aziraphale’s lap, he pulled it out, his other hand caressing up and down Aziraphale’s forearm as if his arm was somehow the most enticing and desirable thing in the world.

“Yeah… yeah... You are a bastard, you know that, Lord? Nah, haven’t seen Sandalphon. Yeah, use the flat, we’ll pick you up in the morning. Just lose the Monopoly set. I told you I’d _do_ it. Fine, yeah, ciao.” Crowley tossed the phone across the sofa, and leaned his head against the top of Aziraphale’s, cursing.

“Everything okay?"

“Yeah. I need to borrow that antiquated computer of yours, love, and start my email right way. Twelve pages, dear Satan."

“Poor sweetheart. There’s some old newspapers around if you want inspiration for evil deeds."

“Thanks, darling.” Crowley dropped a kiss on top of his head and said in a kind of furious rush, “Love you love you _love_ you,” and swung his legs off his lap, wandering to the office.

Aziraphale sighed, and finished his practically untouched tea, which was still at the perfect temperature. It was probably all for the best, but he ached for more kissing, and he was anxious at the result of the consultation with Daniel. He also, he was uncomfortably aware, hadn’t done much to resolve _Dagon’s_ problem. He felt it was highly unlikely that the demon was planning to profess true love and marry a Dominion. He hoped he had done the right thing by mentioning Sandalphon.

“So that was Raphael,” Crowley called from the next room.

“It was. Angel of Love and Joy, among other things."

“Michael certainly seemed to think so.” Aziraphale could _hear_ the smirk in his voice. “Never seen her so soft."

“Maybe she was just pleased that you recognised her as your mummy."

"Shut up.”

“She likes fish, anyway. Thought she might be sympathetic to Dagon."

Aziraphale gathered up the teacups and took them to empty and wash. Nice of Michael to taste it. She always had seemed gentle behind the sternness. Still, better not muck around with any trivial miracles.

Crowley’s almost manically cheerful voice floated in from the office, accompanied by frantic typing. “You’ll need another ring. I suppose you want me to _buy_ it with _money_. De Beers or Cartier?"

“Neither. Crowley, you don’t need to—"

“What colour diamonds do you prefer?"

“I suppose you prefer black,” Aziraphale sighed. “I’m not keen on the ethical implications of diamonds."

“Nah, goes with my aesthetic, but they’re cheap diamonds, used to be used by industry. You?” The keys rattled on.

“Cognac or champagne,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Perfect. Beige _and_ boozy, you old lush. I don’t suppose there are wedding rings with black pearls.” He trailed off dreamily, the rattling of keys ceasing for a moment, and then added, “for oysters."

“Pearls mean tears, don’t they?”Aziraphale said, glad his blush couldn’t be seen. "Michael will be touched."

“Oh, shut it, angel."

There was another knock on the door. _Seriously_, Aziraphale thought, going to tell whoever it was off. Human, angel or demon, he was not in the mood for more visitors. He just wanted to be left alone to make Crowley coffee and lend moral—immoral—well, some kind of support while he did his paperwork. Still, there was some tension at the thought of who could be calling at this late hour. Maybe, he thought hopefully, Raphael had sorted things with Daniel already.

The door swung open to reveal the small, sturdy shape of Sandalphon, in his own body, the one that had been swept bodily up to Heaven so long ago.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, Principality, and that we both suffer the same kind of problems with human corporations,” he said without preamble. “And then Raphael came to talk to me, and said you had been asking about marriage."

Aziraphale blushed scarlet. “She had no right to tell you!"

Sandalphon made a dismissive gesture. “It’s for the best. I didn’t realise what you were going through, trapped all alone on Earth."

Aziraphale looked at him in deep astonishment. Sandalphon looked... sympathetic. Soft. His dark brown eyes wide, his gold teeth glinting. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad after all. Sodom had been a very, very long time ago, and everyone had been more militant back then.

“It’s going to be all right, Aziraphale. I’ll support you. Got to be there for an angel who loves music as much as you do. We have a lot in common, after all."

“That’s _very_ kind of you,” he said with deep relief. “Really, very, very kind indeed."

Aziraphale found himself wrapped in an affectionate hug, the scent of lemons and carnations filling his senses. He couldn’t remember ever having been embraced by a fellow angel. The feeling of safe, Divine love swept through him.

“As soon as the rest of the Board agree, Aziraphale, we can be married straight away,” Sandalphon said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Swedenborgians, aka the New Church, have some really interesting ideas about spiritual marriage, if only they weren't so gender binary and heterosexual.
> 
> 2) Carnations and lemons are associated with Sandalphon. He must smell rather nice.
> 
> 3) I'm sorry.


	19. The joker's always smiling in every hand that's dealt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a muffled giggle against his chest, but it sounded slightly hysterical. “I think I just got betrothed."
> 
> “Yes, yes you did,” Crowley said giddily.

Crowley’s hands flew across the keys, taking credit for every ingenious human iniquity that came to mind. Putting flavoured syrups in coffee. Attempts by antivaxxers to give Pestilence a comeback. Data collection. Social RTS games. Manspreading, an art at which Crowley modestly considered himself a master. Cream in bacon carbonara. Keypad tones. Company complaint lines with several different departments—oh, wait, that _was_ him. Charities spending their funds on board meetings in singles resorts. Singles resorts. He usually took the pride of an artist in his memos, but now he just wanted to be done.

He was so ridiculously happy that he thought he might shatter at any moment, as if his demon heart wasn’t designed to hold so much love and hope. His human form knew quite well how to react to an influx of love and longing, and was aching and twitching, and it was all he could do not to abandon the keyboard and go fling himself on Aziraphale and demand more kisses, more promises, more… everything.

Pathetic, he thought, and it made him grin anyway. Some great tempter, acting like a besotted teenager because after thousands of years his angel was _his_ and he was inches away from proving it—oh, no, no, that wasn’t helping. Still, he held back on the miracle. He wanted to enjoy the desire, now it was no longer something broken and hopeless. Now Aziraphale loved him and wanted him and dear Crowley he needed to get a ring on him as soon as possible before he changed his mind about binding himself to a besmirched, fallen creature, then get him into bed to seal the deal, lavish so much love and lust on him and make him fall apart so completely that he wouldn’t think of ever changing his mind and leaving, would just stay In Crowley’s arms always… Oh, bless, Crowley had to concentrate or he would never get his report done.

He vaguely registered the door being knocked again. Well, Aziraphale of all beings knew how to deal with unwanted customers. Eleven pages, twelve—and sent. He hoped it would give Dagon a good laugh, and maybe be forwarded up the line to Lord Beelzebub. Crowley could do with some gold stars from Hell if he was about to marry an angel.

_Marry_.

Part of him was terrified that all his old hidden dreams were out in the open. As if being exposed like this made him unsafe. But—he had Aziraphale on his side now. They had already proved they could beat anything together. He shoved the chair away and loped out to the main bookshop, having even more trouble than usual remembering what to do with his legs.

Crowley was more than startled to realise that the customer was not only still in the shop, but had Aziraphale folded in his arms. He felt the hackles on his neck rise and his tongue lengthen and fork.

“Hullo.” He did his best to hiss despite the lack of sibilants in the greeting. “Who'sss thisss?” Ah, that was better. Frigid. Not quite threatening yet, but asserting dominance.

Aziraphale broke away from the embrace with what seemed like relief. Good. “I think I had better handle this,” he told the customer.

Crowley took the man in coldly. Short, pleasantly round. Not good looking precisely, but intelligent looking, with a strong nose and jowls and really quite lovely black eyes under a receding hairline, a type that gave Crowley a sudden nostalgia for far ago days in Thisbe, despite the immaculately tailored suit. Not a rival, he told himself. No matter how many books this man had read, no matter how sophisticated he looked, Aziraphale had made it abundantly clear that his type was gangling and loose-limbed and currently dressed like an attractively gone to seed rockstar. Aziraphale was _his_, he had promised, and this human could piss right off.

Human… There was the sense of great age. He had thought the eyes were beautiful because of lucky genetics, but they were perhaps _too_ beautiful. Too large, too black, too luminous. The only eyes Crowley regularly saw the were as stunning as those were--

He hissed more openly this time, stepping forwardly possessively. “We’re closssed, and he’s bussssy. Deliver your assignment and leave.” He let his tongue flicker out over lengthened teeth to taste the angelic scent of petrichor in the air, pushed his glasses back over his head, because both sides knew they were friends now, and he was saved if he’d let an angel scare him out of his—he meant Aziraphale’s—own shop.

The strange angel smiled, all teeth, and with an odd glint of gold and steel in his large white teeth. Nothing like Aziraphale’s angelic smiles, full of radiance and shyness and laughter and pleasure. A gleaming, offensive, joyless smile that took away any attraction in his features, made it a grimacing mask that made Crowley’s fists itch.

“I’ll let you explain, Aziraphale,” he said, with a strange triumph. “Or would you rather?"

“No, no, please go.” Aziraphale pushed at the man’s chest gently, and Crowley didn’t know whether to redouble his protectiveness or be proud at Aziraphale for standing up for himself. He started to circle the pair, just in case. “I want to tell him alone."

“As you like,” the unknown angel said, his expression softening, and Crowley’s heart leapt in hope. _Of course._ The mysterious Principality Daniel, Angel of Marriage. Couldn’t be expected to like a demon, but if he was smiling at Aziraphale, it couldn’t be bad news, could it?

“Yes, please. We’ll—we’ll settle the details later.” Aziraphale gave the angel a _look_, one of the overwhelmed fluttering gratitude and relief that Crowley felt was rightfully reserved for himself alone, and the demon’s blood ran even colder than usual. Unreasonable. Of course he was relieved, if it was good news.

The strange angel smirked at Crowley in what he felt was an oddly personal way, and then pecked a kiss on Aziraphale’s lips in what felt like an even more personal gesture. He didn’t remember all this kissing business in Heaven, Lucifer and Asmodeus had been a bit handsy, but other angels didn’t touch much. But then, he supposed Aziraphale wouldn’t be the only Principality to risk going a bit native.

Aziraphale looked like a deer caught in headlights, at least. No pleasure in the caress. Not like he looked when Crowley kissed him. Still, Crowley let his circle tighten, and slid a possessive arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The other angel gave him an odd look. Amused in a nasty way. Triumphant?

“I’ll see you later, demon,” he said. “Or hopefully not. Take care, Aziraphale. If he turns nasty, summon me straight away."

“Yes—yes.” Crowley waited in vain for an indignant “Crowley would _never_!” Instead Aziraphale gently urged the strange angel to the door. he didn’t say anything until the door was closed and locked and shades dropped over the door and windows, and then he turned under Crowley’s arm and buried his head on his chest.

“Hey.” Crowley wrapped his other arm around his waist, and through his concern felt the thrill that he was allowed to do this. He hoped the clinging was just expelled relief. “You right, angel?” He rested his hand under Aziraphale’s waistcoat and circled his thumb firmly and soothingly through his shirt, on the pliant roll of flesh on Aziraphale's waist above his hip. Crowley's pulse sang that this intimacy was permitted, where he had often longed to touch and squeeze, especially in days of fewer layers and finer cloth.

There was a muffled giggle against his chest, but it sounded slightly hysterical. “I think I just got betrothed."

“Yes, yes you did,” Crowley said giddily.

“To Sandalphon."

Crowley froze. Only his circling thumb still moved. His breath and heart stopped as if the corporation had forgotten how to work.

“Angel,” he said, very slowly, when he remembered how to take air back into his lungs, “I thought you just said you were betrothed to Sandalphon. That couldn’t possibly be right, because you’re _mine._”

“Oh, it’s the foolishest misunderstanding.” Aziraphale sounded bright and, yes, distinctly hysterical.

“_Angel._"

“You see, Raphael—well, I suppose it would have been Daniel, really—"

“That was Daniel? You’d best clear it up quickly.” No, wait. It fell into place. Ancient Persia, and a tall handsome human doing crosswords, and the same venomous smirk from both. “Please. Tell me you didn't just let _Sandalphon_ kiss you. Please."

“It took me by surprise,” Aziraphale said defensively. “And it would have been rude..."

Crowley released him and stepped away, searching for words that would not be loud, would not open up breaches, when the demon in his heart was screaming rage and jealousy.

“He thought you are in a relationship, and you let him kiss you.” The words came out between his teeth like glass shards, but quietly enough.

“You couldn’t possibly think I wanted to.” Aziraphale looked astonished, as if he had suggested something utterly absurd. He pushed back, looked at Crowley with sea-bright eyes. What had Crowley been thinking, to imagine for a moment that any eyes on any other angel could be as pretty as his angel’s when they were all round and innocent? “Or that it was the same as, well. Kissing you."

Those eyes glanced away and down, lashes falling, and the round smooth cheeks blossomed with pink, and Crowley kissed him, thinking despairingly that he was giving in and letting Aziraphale have exactly what he wanted while letting go of his justified outrage. It was impossible to resent it when what Aziraphale wanted was what he had wanted for innumerable centuries, but it was at least a little unfair.

“You bastard,” Crowley sighed, pulling him close again anyway, as Aziraphale gave a happy wriggle. “What have you got us into?"

“I’m really not sure it’s my fault. He seems to have got the idea into his head that—that I just want to be married in _general_, I suppose. That we could solve each other’s problems."

“And what exactly is your problem?” Crowley growled.

“You, I think, my beloved.” Aziraphale stroked his exquisitely well-kept fingers down a leather sleeve, and Crowley was sorry he was wearing so many layers, when he wanted to feel the touch for himself.

“Well, as long as I'm _your_ problem."

“Always.” He tipped his head to be kissed again, and it was not like demons were any good at resisting temptation, at least not when it was offered up with a willing pout.

“You need to fix this,” Crowley said with an attempt at firmness, when he had a chance. “Talk to Sandalphon. Or at least to Raphael."

“That’s no good, she’ll think it’s funny.” Aziraphale’s soft face suddenly hardened. “My dear, you don’t expect me to turn Sandalphon down?"

It was a while before any of the sounds coming out of Crowley’s throat resolved themselves into words. When they did, all he could manage was “Obvioussssly."

“Don’t be silly,” Aziraphale said. “It would hurt the poor boy’s feelings.” He gave Crowley’s jeans-clad rear a fond squeeze, but his words were so blatantly unreasonable that Crowley hardly registered it.

“Hurt. His. Feelings. Hurt them _now._"

“Well, that wouldn’t do us any good, would it?” Aziraphale said in sensible tones. ”Jilting him certainly won’t earn us his vote _or_ his brother’s if our marriage comes before the Board."

“Neither will marrying him!” Crowley stared down at Aziraphale, who was crinkling his angelic brow as if _he_ was being the unfair one. “Unless—no.” He stepped away again and folded his arms. “Nothing against polygamy for other people, but no. Not after all these years. Put it down to _avaritia_ if you like, I’m a bloody demon and I’ll covet you all I want. I’m _not sharing_. "

“Oh, don’t pout, darling. I have no intention of marrying him.” Aziraphale gave him one of his winning, closed-mouth smiles, head tilted fetchingly to one side. “My _only_ darling."

Do not melt, Crowley told himself. Do not melt. He is being a complete, rosy cheeked, rounded, long-lashed, curly haired, sweetly smiling, adorable, sexy son of a bachelor, and I am _furious_ with him.

“So what do you have in mind?” he said more weakly than he meant to, already conceding defeat. “And you are a terrible, terrible angel."

“Oh, I know,” Aziraphale said happily. “No one would put up with me unless they were _desperately_ in love with me, I think you put it.” He stepped closer again and wound his arms around Crowley’s neck, pressing his lips against the skin between his neck and his jaw.

“Don’t be so smug,” Crowley said. It came out more of a breath than a reproof. “Yes, yes I am, my angel. Tell me you love me the same."

“Desperately,” Aziraphale breathed into his ear. “Do you think Sandalphon is desperately in love with me?"

“Don’t ask me that now—no.” Aziraphale flicked his tongue against Crowley’s earlobe, and he shuddered.. “No. No one could love you the way I do. But they should, you shine so brightly, my Aziraphale, please.” He didn’t even know what he was asking for, only that his folded arms were crushed together.

“I think Sandalphon finds me pleasant company,” Aziraphale said calmly, laying his full cheek against Crowley’s narrow one. “I think we have a lot in common, and he thinks we will get along well enough. He might even be attracted to me physically. I think he wants to rescue me from _you_. But I can’t imagine him looking at me the way you do."

“Thank existence for that, or I’d bloody discorporate him,” Crowley muttered.

“He doesn’t know any of my faults,” Aziraphale went on, suddenly fluttering. “My terrible, terrible, annoying traits. How demanding I can be, how unreasonable, how needy, how self-centred, how sarcastic, how petty...“

“Not annoying. Love it when you want things,” Crowley murmured, wriggling his arms out so he could cup Azirphale’s chin and look into his face. “Love it when you look pleading and I know I can make you glow. Love it when you’re a vicious bastard. Love _you_."

Aziraphale looked up at him, so sweetly, so lovingly. “But will Sandalphon appreciate me?"

“He’d better,” Crowley said wildly.

“I think he’d better _not_.” Aziraphale looked lovingly and patiently at him, as if he was an endearingly thick child.

“Oh.” Crowley grinned down, the light coming on. “You mean, you want it to be a relief to hand you back to me."

“Precisely."

“You want him to rejoice in the thought of never, ever having to spend time with you again."

“Indeed.” Aziraphale looked coyly up at him. “Will you help me be really irritating, darling?"

“With _pleasure._” Crowley grinned toothily at him. “Want me to make a list?"

_Danse Macabre_ rang out briefly and cut off. Crowley’s phone pinged with a text. He groaned. “Sweetheart, I have to get that.” He pulled his phone out and stared at the screen.

`Got message from Sandy. Treacherous snake. See how you do without your powers until you keep your side of the deal. Email report received, all satisfactory, Lord Beelzebub says keep up the sterling work. And fuck off. Regards, Dagon. XXX`

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Title is Kylie again. _I believe in you._
> 
> 2) Most demons may not like technology, but Dagon appreciates the subtle levels of insult available in sign-offs and passive-aggressive kisses. When they leave off "Kindest" before their "Regards", Crowley knows he is deep in lava.
> 
> 3) Obviously Aziraphale is a perfect princess and never, ever annoying, but Sandalphon is too mired in smiting-ness to realise this.


	20. We all have our cross to bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I read this fic in which Crowley gave up his powers and it made absolutely no difference to his existence.
> 
> Just saying.

Aziraphale spent the night reinforcing his protective charms around the bookshop, making sure no angels, as well as no demons, could see inside, and refusing to let Crowley have any alcohol.

“You have to drive in the morning,” he said sharply, when Crowley whined at finding the liquor cabinet locked no matter how many times he snapped his fingers at it. “I’m not risking discorporation now of all times.“

“Sober me up afterwards, then."

“I’m not risking accidentally blessing you. You can survive without drinking for one night."

Crowley, who hadn’t gone without drinking a single night that he had been awake in the last five thousand years, flung himself face down on the couch with a desolate sob.

“Don’t be so theatrical. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, and then off to bed.”

Crowley looked up hopefully. “Angel?"

“No.  _ You _ are going to bed, to be well-rested for all the driving tomorrow.  _ I _ am making sure my betrothed can’t drop in unexpectedly and touch my books." 

“ _ I’m _ your betrothed, and I’m not interested in your blasted books."

“You know perfectly well what I mean. Stop glowering at me like a child,” Aziraphale added, although his back was turned as he carefully traced another sigil in the air.

“Are you already practising irritating Sandalphon, or is this just you being you?"

Aziraphale sighed and perched on the arm of the chair. “I’m sorry, dearest. I know this is hard on you. But I’m sure Dagon will forgive you once I’ve explained the situation to them.” 

“Oh, yeah, they are known for being kind and forgiving and not sadistic in the slightest."

“Now, now, they are perfectly pleasant.” Aziraphale wound his fingers in short hair, scratching Crowley’s scalp gently as if he was caressing a cat. He was hoping it would make it hard to stay petulant, but Crowley made the heroic effort.

“I don’t know why they’re punishing  _ me _ . Why does everyone always blame me? Why is everything always  _ my _ fault?” Crowley demanded of the universe.

“Finished, dear?"

“No. It’s not fair. I wasn’t the one who seduced Sandalphon."

“I certainly did not seduce anyone."

“Tell me about it,” Crowley grumbled, and Aziraphale chuckled. “Oh, you are the worst."

“Isn’t that the point?” He slid his fingers through soft hair.

Crowley made a noise hat somehow managed to suggest that no, it was not, at least not being the worst to  _ him _ , but that the petting was nice. He moved to pillow his face on Aziraphale's thighs.

“I’ll make you the tea,” Aziraphale said, immediately pushing his head off and standing up, and Crowley made a noise of protest this time. “Go get changed for bed, you can’t possibly sleep properly in that ridiculous outfit. There’s pyjamas in my bedside drawer."

“You do have a bed, then. You have pyjamas? Why?"

“Normally when I stay in hotels, it’s planned, and I like to have the right luggage and give the proper human image. Besides, they are comfy."

Crowley sat up and gave him a meaningful smile that, unfortunately, Aziraphale was at a loss to decode, and went upstairs in a suspiciously lamblike manner, including the uncertain control of limbs that lambs have. Aziraphale sighed and headed for the kitchenette.

Five minutes later he was pounding up the stairs in response to a shriek of “Angel, help!”. He gathered Grace around him, ready to smite any enemies.

“What’s wrong?” He glanced around the room looking for threats. Crowley was lying topless and face down on the bed, jeans rucked around his hips, fly stretched open.

“I can’t get my jeans off without help."

“ _ Crowley. _ ” Relief and annoyance sharpened his voice.

“I can’t get them back on either. They’re stuck on my hips!” he whined. 

“If this is some hare-brained seduction attempt, we agreed to wait until things are sorted out."

“I’m stuck, angel, honest.” Crowley’s cheeks burned.”And the zip is cutting into my—please help.” 

“If they weren’t so ridiculously tight—oh, Crowley, why in existence did you roll the waistband down like that? No wonder you got stuck.” Crowley hadn’t even taken his shoes off first, the trousers would have become stuck around his ankles if he even got that far. Snakeskin shoes on his bedcovers, too. "That’s not how you take trousers off,” Aziraphale said helplessly.

“Isn’t it?” muttered Crowley, flushing even deeper. “Ow."

“No, it’s not. Oh. Oh, don’t tell me you’ve never taken your own trousers off."

“I have. But y’know. before zippers and jeans and things. When there were… suspenders and laces."

“But what about in front of humans? What kind of a temptation demon are you?"

“One that’s better at provoking wrath than lust, obviously."

“Well, I suppose it’s better to know in advance so I can lower my expectations for the wedding night, dear."

“Oh, you  _ bastard. _ Sandalphon has no idea what he’s in for.” Aziraphale tittered despite himself, and Crowley collapsed with laughter. “Azirphaaaale, it  _ hurts. _ Please, I really do need help. Please."

“It’s so sweet when you beg."

“ _ Angel _ . Don’t start that now. It’s impossible to get them off already."

“I’m not even sure I own a seam ripper. Maybe rubbing you down with oil would help."

“I said to stop it. Can’t you just miracle them off?"

“And explain in my reports that I am miracling a demon in my bed out of his trousers? Do you really want that read by your  _ mummy _ ?"

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Crowley's attempt to snarl wasn’t particularly convincing and Aziraphale was suddenly ridiculously happy. “Take pity, my darling. You’re an angel, after all."

Aziraphale's glow dimmed a little. He waved his fingers, and Crowley found himself freed from his jeans, and just for safety’s sake, covered up nicely in soft cotton pyjamas, including a pyjama top. There had been, Aziraphale decided, entirely enough writhing around half-naked on the bed for one night. “Angels are not always particularly merciful.”

“ _ You _ are,” Crowley said, squirming fluidly around to sit across his lap, one arm draped around Aziraphale's shoulders and the other finding one of Aziraphale’s own and linking their fingers together. “My hero, saving me from the evil human jeans. Warned you I’d be a cuddler. You have such a lovely broad lap for sitting on. Why have I been wasting centuries sitting separately?"

Aziraphale hummed quietly and ran his hands down his back, feeling the bones and musculature through the cotton. Delicate and strong all at once. He didn’t particularly want to answer the question, too much pain and fear and old longing there. Better to focus on the almost unimaginable reality of actually holding this ridiculous, precious creature close at last.

“We should be grateful to Dagon and Sandalphon,” he said dreamily.

“Yeah, right. I’m feeling incredibly grateful right about now."

“I mean it. Just a few days ago I was hoping I could convince you to leave London for a bit, see if, when we were out of our usual routine we might… well… I didn’t even really dare to think about it. Something. Look at us now."

“In a mess as usual, and still not putting out,” grumbled Crowley, tightening his grasp on hand and shoulders and sinking his teeth into Aziraphale’s shoulder for good measure. Aziraphale winced, despite the layers of clothes protecting his skin. “Sorry, snake instincts. You’re so soft, couldn’t help it. Are you really sending me to sleep like a human kid?"

“You need to drive in the morning. And it looks like we will have to buy you some new trousers. That  _ fit _ ."

“Huh. At least stay a while."

Aziraphale thought of the work he should probably do to prepare for the coming days, and then shifted around fully onto the bed, dragging Crowley with him. He settled down with Crowley still draped across him. Just a  _ little _ miracle to get the quilt out from under them and over them instead. The poor boy was cold-blooded.

“I’ll stay until you sleep,” he promised.

“Always so soft. Oh, I love you.” Crowley pressed a kiss against his jaw. “Mine.” There was a touch of defiance under the possessiveness, an insecurity that made Aziraphale’s heart ache.

“Yours,” he promised. “We’ll sort this out, beloved, and I’ll prove it to you. And you’re mine."

“Always was,” Crowley agreed sleepily. “You know, talking of expectations, one of those books on getting rid of demon spouses—I’m burning them, by the way—said that sex demons are  _ principalities. _ You have a lot to prove."

“I look forward to it,” Aziraphale said, but Crowley was already asleep.

* * *

The Bentley lurched forward, stalled, and Crowley furiously pumped the pedal. “Drive, bless you! Show some fucking loyalty! Wait, no, I didn’t mean to swear at you, baby.” He patted the wheel apologetically. “Let’s try again for Daddy."

He managed to get her moving again at last, straight at another car. 

“Slow down!” Aziraphale said, out of habit, but actually the Bentley was moving very, very slowly. The other driver had ample time to get out of the way and scream abuse at them. 

Crowley stuck his head out of the window and screamed worse. “Why won’t she speed up?” he lamented, flattening the accelerator. “ _ Why are there cars in my fucking road? _ Get out of the way!"

Ten minutes later, the two of them were standing on the side of the road again, Aziraphale having spent another miracle to park the Bentley.

“So,” he said, as calmly as possible, when his heart seemed to be pumping like a proper human one and not trying to escape his body. “We have established that you don’t actually know how to drive."

“I’ve been driving nearly a century!"

“You’ve been miracling your way through traffic for nearly a century.” He hailed a taxi, and Crowley, sulking, followed him. The demon was in too bad of a mood to even attempt getting cuddly or handsy in the back which, Aziraphale told himself, was a relief. Crowley was sulky enough at wearing beige trousers.

Aziraphale thought a discreet and quirky boutique was Crowley’s style, but he had no idea how to find such a thing, and Crowley didn’t buy clothes at all. Aziraphale’s usual tailors didn’t, as far as he knew, sell ready to wear jeans. In the end Aziraphale took the easy option and went to Harrods, where he bought his own underwear.

It took some time to find jeans black, tight and expensive enough to please Crowley. An assistant was summoned as Crowley had no idea what his size was. lt took all of Aziraphale’s sweetness and a slight use of angelic powers to defuse the situation when an unfortunate assistant suggested that black skinny fits just weren’t all that fashionable these days and would sir like to try some nice blue slim jeans that were more flattering and suitable for his age. 

Crowley made a whispered plea of not knowing how to put them on and needing to drag Aziraphale into the changing room with him, but when Aziraphale suggested sending the assistant in to dress him the demon glowered and flounced in alone. Aziraphale helpfully called after him, “Remember to take your shoes off first, dear!"

Eventually he emerged in skin-fitting black jeans in coated denim, glistening on his slender thighs like oil. He revolved slowly, smirking. “Satisfactory?"

Aziraphale licked his suddenly dry lips. “Quite."

Crowley smirked. “I’ll take six.” He turned his attention to underwear, socks and t-shirts.

Hen they finally made it back to the counter, the assistant, who was already nervous of Crowley, sent him a terrified look at the counter. “I’m very sorry, but it seems your credit card isn’t working. I’m sure it’s a mistake."

Crowley threw four more at him. “Try those,” he said grimly.

Ten minutes later, Aziraphale’s credit card was lighter by several thousand pounds, and Crowley was fuming in the Roastery and Bake Hall.

“They’re just doing this to humiliate me. They know I like to pay.”

”For an angel’s food, with Hell’s money. Possibly they have a reason to be annoyed, dear. Try this.” He lifted a forkful of buttery, flakey croissant, and Crowley shut up for a moment.

“S'nice,” he admitted. “You do realise that assistant thinks I’m your kept man?"

“Was it humiliating?” Aziraphale asked thoughtfully.

“Yes, yes it was.” Crowley frowned. “I don’t think that would work with Sandalphon, though. Likely to be more annoying if you demand things in your picky, pernickety way, and Sandalphon will know everyone will think he’s paying for your company."

“Is it really that annoying, dear?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly struck with compunction, despite the recent memory of Crowley fussing because a £2,000 dressing gown had navy detailing as well as red and he wasn't sure it fit his aesthetic.

“I adore it.” Crowley sent him a languishing glance. "But Sandalphon is not me. It’s worth a try."

“True.” He smiled happily. “I can be  _ very _ trying."

Crowley caught the hand with the fork and kissed Aziraphale’s wrist before making the next forkful of croissant. “We need to go pick Dagon up,” he said once he had chewed and swallowed. “Can you hire a car and driver? I would, but..."

“Surely they won’t expect a lift back after all of this."

“You do not,” Crowley said, “know Dagon. They will be looking forward to it.” He descended into gloom, and Aziraphale decided it was tactful to remain silent, in case Crowley was traumatised by the thought of cheating on the Bentley.

* * *

“Of  _ course _ I understand,” Dagon said, patting Aziraphale’s knee comfortingly. “I’m not upset with you at all. I quite see it wasn’t your fault."

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said gratefully. “If you could see your way to—"

“It was the stupid snake’s fault. You wouldn’t have ended up engaged to Sandy if he had taken better care of you, darling. Crowley doesn’t deserve you."

“Get your fucking hand off his knee,” snarled Crowley. 

Dagon smiled sweetly at him. “You mean get your fucking hand off his knee,  _ My Lord _ . I’ve already taken your powers and your credit cards. What else would you like to lose? Your hair?"

Crowley’s hand went defensively to his buzzed sides, and Aziraphale hastily covered Dagon’s hand with his own. “No need for that. Dagon, please be kind. Crowley’s as helpless as a baby without his powers."

“ _ Don’t tell them that! _ ” Crowley hissed desperately.

“Nice jeans,” said Dagon. “Did your sugar daddy here buy them?"

“That… that is so unfair.” Crowley sprawled face-down across a couch, knocking dozens of pillows out of the way as he did.

“Your skinny arse looks good in them, though,” Dagon said. Crowley rolled over, glaring. “And your—"

“So, we need your help with Sandalphon,” Aziraphale said hastily. He picked up the box on the coffee table.“Try this Turkish Delight, it’s a Harrods speciality. You won’t have anything like that in Hell."

“Did that bastard serpent make you pay for it yourself?” Dagon asked sympathetically, helping themselves to sweets. Crowley choked.

“Are you going to let that poor human have her body back?” Crowley demanded in return.

“No, I think not. It’s quite useful for now, and she should've been more specific when she signed the contract. So, Aziraphale, how can I be of help to getting your lovely self out of this fix?"

“Well.” Aziraphale beamed at them. Demons he reflected, were much more restful and understanding company than angels. It would almost be worth Falling to spend all his time with demons. Hell couldn’t be all  _ that _ bad. He’d heard it was warm. “I have a plan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) FASHION SHOW. 
> 
> [ Jeans ](https://www.harrods.com/en-gb/saint-laurent/coated-skinny-low-rise-jeans-p000000000006157663?bcid=M010010030000)
> 
> [ Dressing gown ](https://www.harrods.com/en-gb/daniel-hanson/jacquard-silk-robe-p000000000006210393?bcid=M010010050000)
> 
> 2) I have a busy weekend planned, so it might be a few days until the next update. Sandy will have a few brief moments of peace before discovering what it really is like to be Aziraphale’s betrothed, especially with two demons hovering protectively around.
> 
> 3) Three chapters. This monster was going to be three chapters long. I promise, once more, a happy ending and actual consummation. Question is, as part of the main fic, or separate to retain a relatively pure rating? Thoughts welcome.


	21. All the lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The thing is, Aziraphale is kind of a package deal. He comes with an Adversary. If you marry him, you’ll be spending a lot of time in my company."

Crowley bounded out of the car and down the long drive as if being in a vehicle he was not driving had been some torment of Hell. Actually, when Aziraphale considered it that way, it was exactly what it was, inflicted by the Master of Torments themselves. He resolved to have another word with Dagon, who was a nice reasonable being, when Crowley wasn’t around to provoke them. Aziraphale was still a little sorry for Nell, although hopefully she was learning a valuable lesson about contracts with demons and how unwise they were for fragile little humans.

Aziraphale followed Crowley more slowly. He thanked the driver, sending love to her wife and children—Aziraphale had enjoyed a lovely conversation with her about them all the way down from London from his perch in the nicely seat belted back seat, ignoring the inconsiderate demons trying to change the subject—and tipping generously. When he reached the front door step, Crowley was snarling at the winter jasmine over the door frame.

“You’re not listening to me, are you? No, you really are _not_ listening to me. You’re not scared at all. Bloody Dagon, won’t even let me talk to our plants properly. They are going to get completely out of order."

_Our plants._ Aziraphale noted the phrasing with a warm twisting in his stomach. “Take off your glasses, beloved,” he said suddenly, struck by an impulse.

Crowley pushed them to the top of his head, one eyebrow quirked and a faint flush on his cheeks, and the winter jasmine burst out into a cascade of yellow stars behind him. The rich, seductive scent of white flowers, the gold of Crowley’s eyes reflected by the flowers, his lithe figure in dark clothes and burnished hair and the bright, bright eyes and jasmine. Aziraphale sucked the picture into his head, and image to keep forever, a moment of perfect beauty, on the threshold of the cottage—_their_ cottage, at least for the moment.

“How is it that you want me, you strange stunning thing?” he asked wonderingly.

Crowley’s flush increased and he ducked his head. “Th-hat’s easy. Look, you can’t just make it bloom like that, not until well after Christmas. It will lose all sense of order and discipline. And the scent, do you even realise winter jasmine isn’t fragranced?"

“Isn’t it? I love the smell of jasmine. I thought all jasmine had it."

“I can tell,” Crowley said, and his smile was fond and frustrated.

“Don’t you like the smell?” Aziraphale asked, pretending hurt, eyelashes fluttering down. Crowley must _know_ it was a pretence, yet he still behaved perfectly, cupping Aziraphale's chin and lifting his face.

“I love it. It’s rich and luscious and flamboyant, just like you.” He stepped closer. “And it’s an aphrodisiac."

“Perhaps you should supply my barber with more jasmine scents."

“Yes, I should—wait, you knew I do that?"

Aziraphale smiled at him. “It’s aways a delight seeing what you come up with."

“Huh.” Crowley recovered his dignity a little. “Well, you deserve nice things and to be indulged and spoiled. You deserve _everything_. And it’s my job to know about aphrodisiacs _and_ ways to waste money. Night-flowering jasmine is sexy as hell, because it’s indolic.” Then, because he was a demon and had trouble sticking to what was appropriate without letting his mouth run on, added “That means it has scent molecules that smell like arse, or at least like--"

Aziraphale pecked him quickly on the lips before he could spoil the moment completely, and opened the door, feeling that he would be safer away from prying eyes.

“if I deserve everything, then make me some tea while I set new wards against observation.” He tried to make his tone flirtatious and meaningful, but self-consciousness and the thought that he was being ridiculous made him look down and up in embarrassment, expecting Crowley must think him ridiculous. Seductiveness was something best achieved by demons with loose hips and tight trousers that glimmered on his svelte thighs like petrol, and not with—

Crowley’s eyes were dark gold and black, the whites barely visible, and his hands clenched and unclenched on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he made a strange noise twice before managing actual words, even if they were more like reptilian sounds than human speech. “If you look at Sandalphon like that even once, all bets about driving him away are off, because there’s no way anyone wouldn’t forgive you anything to be looked at like that.” He leaned in, mouth close enough that his lips were ghosting over Aziraphale’s own. Silently asking permission. That was more of a thrill than anything, that Crowley was a demon, that he had all this banked power, and he _did_ bank it, patiently waiting on permission, needing to be accepted.

Aziraphale tipped his chin very slightly, let his lips be claimed, tilting his head down to receive kisses on his eyelids, let Crowley’s mouth find his again, hungry and tender. It already felt like a ritual, like years of repressed intimacy flowering into kisses, something no one in this modern world did or understood. Like worship. And what a strange thought that was, a demon worshipping an angel, and he was afraid himself if the word might fit what he felt, because that was even more blasphemous for a soldier of the Lord, to feel reverence for one of the Fallen...

He wound his arms around Crowley’s neck, parted his lips and moved in for a deeper kiss, feeling the cool slide of a demon tongue into the warmth of his mouth.

There was a clink of dishes from the kitchen, and Crowley spun away, shoulders tensed and ready to fight. And that was a thrill, too, feeling so instinctively protected, although really what could some human burglar do to him, and why would they be in the kitchen anyway? He put a soothing hand on Crowley’s arm.

“Hello?"

Sandalphon emerged from the kitchen, two mugs in hand. “Hello, Aziraphale. What happened to your kitchen?"

“I did,” Crowley snarled. “I wanted it to feel more like home. Fair’s fair. Aziraphale gets pink walls, I get the smell of fire and ashes."

Sandalphon looked less than amused. “This is not your home, demon."

“I’m afraid it is,” Aziraphale said apologetically. “At least when he gets tired of London. We already had an Arrangement before, well…"

“Congratulations on your betrothal,” Crowley said, his tone nasty. “I hope you realise you are engaged to the only real angel in Heaven or outside."

“You’re no judge of that, snake."

“And here I am, being friendly. Let me offer my congratulations at carrying off my Adversary. He is a catch even for an archangel. Aren’t you even a little worried that he already has a demon spouse?” He leaned his hip against the back of the sofa and removed both mugs from Sandalphon’s hands, passing one to Aziraphale.

Sandalphon snorted and sat down on an armchair, his smile wide. Aziraphale was a little impressed. Instead of being intimidated by Crowley’s height, the Dominion was smug and self-confident enough to lower his head even further. “I’ve been sharing a body with Tristan long enough to know that Aziraphale had no husband until you suddenly turned up."

“You think there was no contract?” Crowley asked, silkily. “Sandy, dear Sandy, think. We averted the Apocalypse together. We have an Arrangement.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether he caught a tiny fading of Sandalphon's smile at the word, a mere flicker before the toothy smile returned.

“Not a marriage contract."

“No. But an Arrangement all the same. And you, Angel of Prayer, understand the importance better than anyone—except Dagon.” Sandalphon flinched at the name, Aziraphale was sure of it. Ah. There it was. Not as immune to Dagon’s name as he thought. Crowley pressed his advantage. “Going to run and ask them for advice? I don’t think they will be entirely happy with you, marrying an angel.”

“Why should they care?” Sandalphon asked, in what seemed like genuine bewilderment.

Crowley scrunched his eyes closed. “_Angels._ Oh, Sandy. You are in no position to be self-righteous about Arrangements. The thing is, Aziraphale is kind of a package deal. He comes with an Adversary. If you marry him, you’ll be spending a lot of time in my company."

“I’m not afraid of you, demon. I’ll protect Aziraphale from you.” It was almost touching. Aziraphale went to sip his tea, and then his nose scrunched with concern.

“I’m no danger to Aziraphale. In fact, I intend to ensure he is very happy.” Crowley smiled. “I’m going to give you the chance to make him happy, and to see how happy he makes you."

“No interference?” Sandalphon’s smile was even nastier than usual.

“Oh, I didn’t say that. But I’m willing to be sensible, for the sake of Aziraphale’s happiness. After all—angel, is something wrong with your tea?"

“Oh, no, no.” Aziraphale sipped it hastily, trying not to flinch too obviously.

“Aziraphale,” Sandalphon said, looking concerned, “is there a problem? You like tea. I thought it was important that I learned to make it."

“It’s fine! It’s lovely, really.”

“Aziraphale?” Sandalphon looked worried now, and Crowley, blast him, was grinning.

“It’s just that it’s Assam tea. And it’s not even lunchtime,” Aziraphale said.

“It said on the tin that it was a breakfast tea."

Aziraphale pouted miserably. “Well, I know some people do like to drink black malty tea early in the morning, and it does go well if you have something greasy like bacon for breakfast, but I find it is better to have green tea mid-morning because it’s brighter and less heavy. Perhaps a nice _long jing_ or Darjeeling. I mean, Darjeeling is technically a black tea, but it’s more of a golden champagne. Er.”

There was a moment, and Sandalphon said steadily, “It may take me a while to learn your material preferences. Tristan liked breakfast tea, but of course, as an angel you have more refined tastes. Is anything else wrong?"

“The temperature. Er. You let the water boil,” Aziraphale said, in a humiliated, hushed voice. “It’s better to stop a kettle just before the before boiling point. I don’t mean to criticise..."

“Of course not, darling, he understands that,” Crowley said cheerfully, draining his own cup. “You just like things perfect, like the perfect angel you are. Come into the kitchen, Sandy, and I’ll show you how to make tea the way he likes it.” He grabbed Sandalphon’s arm and dragged him to his feet. “We’ll leave Zira to phone Dagon and arrange tonight’s double date, right?"

“Our _what_?"

“Well, last night didn’t go very well, so we thought we’d try again,” Aziraphale said. “I mean, we’ve barely started courting, we hardly know each other outside of a working relationship, and when I explained to Crowley and Dagon that you’d proposed, they offered to come along and make everything easier. Isn’t it nice of them?"

“They are _demons._"

“Demons with a kindly interest in our Adversaries and making sure they don’t marry someone who can’t make them happy, I should hope,” Crowley said, grinning openly. “We can chaperone."

“_Chaperone,_” Sandalphon repeated blankly. “Chaperoned by demons."

“Well, this is all very new to me,” Aziraphale said defensively.

“And who knows, maybe romance will bloom between us as well and there will be an epidemic of celestial and occult marriages. You could set a precedent. We could—oh, Aziraphale, we could have a double wedding!” Crowley said, as if a delightful thought had just occurred to him.

“I would love to get married on the same day as you, my oldest and dearest enemy.” Aziraphale let the corners of his mouth rise. “It’s my fondest dream."

“Might be good for my career, too. Do you think Dagon fancies me?” Crowley posed theatrically, hip thrust out, hand resting on one buttock.

“Possibly not yet, dear, but those jeans can’t hurt,” Aziraphale said encouragingly, trying not to stare too obviously. “They did express admiration of them, didn’t they? And your lovely, ah—"

“You managed half the word, angel, spit it out. Dagon has better taste than I gave them credit for."

“Let’s have that tea making lesson, snake,” Sandalphon said, rather crossly. “I need to learn how to take care of my future husband.”

Crowley slung a friendly arm over his shoulder and hauled him to his feet and towards the burned-out kitchen. “My pleasure. All right, with lunch Aziraphale prefers pu-erh, to help with digestion, unless he’s having sushi, which he often does, in which case…"

Aziraphale settled back in his chair, feeling warmed and happy about how much care and attention Crowley showed in memorising his little ways.

* * *

“Hullo, Sandy,” Dagon said happily. “Nice to see you back in your own body. And congratulations, if you _have_ to marry an angel, this one’s my favourite.” They clapped Aziraphale fondly on the bottom, ignoring the angel and demon both staring daggers.

Aziraphale beamed at them. “This is _so_ thoughtful of you. A mystery double date, and planned by a demon! So exciting."

“Why,” Sandalphon asked coldly, “is our evening together being planned by a demon?"

“Isn’t it kind?” Aziraphale said, a little breathless. “Demons are always the best at luxury. I explained to them that you’d proposed, and they offered to make the day really special, and—"

“Check that everything was going well,” said Dagon, a toothy smile on Nell’s comely face. “Imagine my surprise when I realised Zira had snagged an archangel. I suppose you Dominions like them soft to balance out your lovely smiting tendencies. Well, well, I’ve seen less likely couples. And trios and sextets. Still, I hope you don’t mind, Aziraphale darling, this _is_ my Adversary you’re engaged to. I have to make sure you’re capable of keeping him happy,” Dagon said sternly. Sandalphon gave them a startled look. “After all, there’s a demonic contract at stake, and I’m not breaking it unless I am _sure_ it is necessary for Sandy’s happiness."

“I’m sure he won’t have any problems,” Crowley said smoothly. “Aziraphale _is_ the sweetest being in all the planes of existence, sickeningly sunshiney. I can vouch for that. Now, where are we going?"

“Demonic contract?” Sandalphon seemed a little thrown.

“Crowley is a _very valued employee_, and he has a prior contract with the angel.” Dagon patted Sandalphon's shoulder. “Not a problem, I’m sure. Demonic contracts can always be broken, given the right circumstances. It’s my speciality. Now, I have a lovely day planned. Nell thinks you will adore shopping for your dear little cottage in Petworth, and then—well, you’ll never guess what I have planned. You two young lovers will be glad you have chaperones. Serpent, shall we?” They extended an arm, and Crowley slid a hand into it, winking at them. “Mustn’t keep the driver waiting."

They looked oddly intimate together, two demons, linked together, and Aziraphale felt a vague pang. He smiled bravely and took Sandalphon’s arm. The archangel seemed to cheer up a little, although he was still frowning in the direction of the demons, and they headed for the car.

Sometime later, they reached their twenty-eighth antique shop. Crowley and Sandalphon were both looking somewhat bedraggled, and Aziraphale was in proud possession of seven new snuff boxes, a fascinating silver hip flask, a matched pair of Shibayama whist markers, a Jaques chess set, an ebonised bracket clock, an eighteenth-century croquet set, and a perfect set of Jodhpur pattern enamelled champagne glasses. The larger pieces were being sent on, but Sandalphon was struggling under the other bags and boxes. Aziraphale had the temptation to offer to carry them, or to suggest a frivolous miracle. He resisted.

Crowley was even more red-faced than Sandalphon. “Stop buying him stuff!” he hissed at Dagon.

“Well, _someone_ has to look after him. Seeing that Sandy won’t spend Heaven’s money on frivolities, and _you_ seem to be short of cash. And there’s four antique shops left to go in this town. Zira, look at this watch chain, isn’t it a beauty?"

“Oh, it’s lovely.” Aziraphale fingered the beautiful thing, admiring the sunset glow of the rose gold.

“It’s yours."

Aziraphale beamed fondly at Dagon. “Thank you, d—my friend."

Crowley choked, and then appealed to Aziraphale. “Angel, this makes no sense. If you wanted an eighteenth-century croquet set, you could have bought one _in the eighteenth century,_"

“I didn’t know I wanted one then!” Aziraphale protested. “Why don’t you want me to have nice things?"

“I do, I just—it should be--I’m not bloody taking up croquet again!"

“I didn’t know you played."

“It was useful. Great game, designed to do really mean things, pissed people off terribly. The Monopoly of the time. I’m not playing it for _fun_.” Crowley brightened suddenly. “But then, I don’t have to. You have Sandalphon to play with now. All day every day, if you like."

Sandalphon looked a little hunted. “I’m sure I can learn. Not all day every day, though. I do have a lot of important duties. Prayer categorisation and forwarding, for a start.""

“Now, now, surely you don’t prioritise paperwork over your own angel?"

“Actually,” said Dagon, “paperwork is _extremely_ important.” They smiled at Sandalphon. “I think we should work together in making sure our boys fulfil their duties better don’t you?"

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged agonised glances.

“Now,” said Dagon, “I need to pop back down to Hell to pick up my own corporation for the next part of the date. Nell here is being a pain, she says that intimate group nudity wasn’t part of the possession agreement, and I guess she has me on the legalities. I’ll put her body on ice for a bit."

“She says that _what_?” gasped Sandalphon, but Dagon had already vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) If you ever wondered why jasmine is so love-it-or-hate-it and weirdly, well, carnal, now you know.
> 
> 2) Petworth does indeed have 32 antique shops.


	22. When your lovers bring you down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaperoned by their loving demons, the angels proceed to the next stage of their date: lunch.
> 
> Still fully dressed, for now.

Crowley was not enjoying the day as much as he had hoped. Yes, he had memories to cling to of the way Aziraphale had looked at him and what he had said outside the door, and the decidedly enthusiastic response to his kisses once inside, both of which still turned his stomach to molten silver if he let himself think about it. Yes, it was delightful to see Aziraphale openly display parts of his sunlit personality usually only revealed to Crowley and people attempting to buy books.

The problem was that no matter how kind and sympathetic Dagon pretended to be, they were still the Master of Torments, and apparently their current favourite target was Crowley. He wondered just how well Dagon actually knew him, to know how it would feel to stand by while Dagon bought Aziraphale everything his gaze fell on, and to have Aziraphale light up with joy in response.

Aziraphale could afford it all himself, too. But that, Crowley knew perfectly well, was not the point. There was something about Aziraphale that meant that the right and proper way of being was to lavish him with luxuries.

Dagon reappeared almost as soon as they had vanished, human corporation in place.

“Oh, you look _charming_,” Aziraphale said with what Crowley felt was unnecessary warmth. He was mildly relieved that Dagon had picked a female-presenting body. It wasn’t that he was _worried_, but—well, given it was Aziraphale, Crowley was a little happier that way, pleasant though Dagon’s corporation was. They kept their ginger bobbed hair, styled more fashionably, and worse perfectly done conservative makeup that Crowley suspected showed Nell’s lingering influences, the tell-tale scales barely showing underneath. The frilly dress with cascades of satin and velvet in a wreath collar was, he suspected, all Dagon, as were the shark leather bag and shoes.1

“Still dressed, I see,” Sandalphon said sharply.

Dagon opened their heavy-lidded eyes wide. “Disappointed? I know you’re eager, but we should at least have lunch before you get to see me starkers. I mean, get to see Aziraphale. We’re just here to chaperone, aren’t we, serpent darling?” They hooked their arm through Crowley’s arm and beamed at Sandalphon.

The angels were left a little behind due to Sandalphon struggling with Aziraphale’s new treasures, and Crowley took the opportunity to snarl into Dagon’s ear, “Stop spoiling my angel like that."

“Isn’t part of the plan to make Sandy realise only a demon is reckless enough with luxury to keep a fussy angel satisfied?"

“Yeah, but the demon's supposed to be _me_, not you. Give me back my bloody powers and funds. I’ve seen the error of my ways, enough is enough."

“Don’t mistake me for having compassionate motives. If you think I am at all interested in helping you get a leg over your angel, you are mistaken. I’m more interested in showing Sandy just how wonderful being spoiled by me could be."

Crowley tensed. “But what about Aziraphale? That’s not fair on him."

“_Fair_? Is that really a word that should be in your vocabulary, scion of Hell?” Crowley bit his lip, and Dagon giggled. “Don’t worry, snake, I think it’s amusing how besotted you are with your fluffy little angel. But that doesn’t mean you’re getting off easy. After all, I find him quite enjoyable, too. Fair warning, if you lose me _my_ angel, I’m taking yours."

“Frrnghh. That’s—you can’t,” Crowley said, remembering the way Aziraphale had been looking at him lately, the touches and kisses. "Anyway, how is that fair?” he added, more injured. "_I_ didn’t take your blasted angel."

Dagon’s smile grew warning. “Are you saying it’s _Aziraphale’s_ fault? That he seduced Sandy away from me?"

Crowley started to panic, on general principles of no one being allowed to blame his sweet Aziraphale for anything. “No, no of course not."

“Well, then.” A satisfied smirk crossed Dagon’s pretty face. “There we are. I’m getting an angel either way. Oh, look, boys,” they went on more loudly, "The Angel Inn on Angel Street. Perfect for a first date for our lovebird angels."

“Lovebird?” Sandalphon muttered, glaring at Dagon, who smiled sweetly back.

“_Angel_?” said Crowley.

“It has excellent food. What, are you suggesting these humans discriminate against our kind?"

“Oh, no, we are all of angelic stock,” Aziraphale, who had been looking a little wistful and staring at the demons’ linked arms, visibly brightened up at the words _excellent food_. “We are all--"

Crowley knew, just _knew_, that Aziraphale was going to launch into a lecture about how they were all brothers and sisters and God’s precious creations, angel and demon and human alike, and even little Siblings Wood Larvae over there. Judging from Sandalphon’s gritted teeth, he knew it as well.

“Let’s all go in, shall we?” Sandalphon gave in to temptation at last, and the parcels miraculously vanished from his arms.

“Oh, dear, was that really a justified use of a miracle?” Aziraphale fretted. “Perhaps I should have offered to help you carry them."

Sandalphon gave him a long, hard look of disbelief, as Aziraphale fluttered ahead of them into the Inn. “I _am_ an archangel,” he said under his breath. “He’s just an Earth agent. How did I end up carrying the parcels? I don’t even remember."

“I’m afraid I’ve spoiled him a little,” Crowley said apologetically. “Tempting is my nature, you know. Still, you’ll find it’s all worth it when he lights up like a, er, lightbulb.”He reflected that he wasn’t very good at poetic language.

“Indeed,” Sandalphon said, his usually soft jaw rigid.

“Come, my loves,” Dagon said, extending their free arm to Sandalphon. Getting all three of them through the door proved impossible, though, and Crowley released Dagon and slipped behind.

As a result, as they entered the inn he could clearly see Aziraphale over the two shorter being’s shoulders, already deep in discussion with a waiter. Aziraphale looked over, and Crowley gave into temptation and mouthed a kiss. Aziraphale’s eyes widened and yes, his expression was like an incandescent lightbulb, the expression that said _I don’t care that you’re Fallen and evil and a demon and I’m not supposed to like you, seeing you fills me with joy, you amazing, precious being._ The look that made Crowley fall fathoms deep in love all over again every time he saw it, the look he felt like he would move Heaven and Hell to cause.

It occurred to Crowley that it might look like Aziraphale was looking at Sandaphon, and he felt a sickening lurch of jealousy. To his surprise Sandalphon fell back, letting Dagon go on to join Airaphale standing by the table, and grasped Crowley’s arm.

“Is the Principality always so… demonstrative?” He looked red and highly uncomfortable.

“Oh, yes. He really is disgustingly soppy,” Crowley said fondly. "Clingy, too."

Sandalphon shifted his feet. “But… surely that’s a very human way to behave. I know Tristan liked how dependent and vulnerable he seems, but Aziraphale is a Soldier of the Lord. Surely this kind of lovelorn behaviour is undignified."

“Nnghrh,” Crowley said thoughtfully. "I’ve never really gone in for possession. Must be difficult sorting your feelings out from your host’s. Still, I’m sure your feelings for Aziraphale were _all yours._” Crowley smiled in his most snakelike manner. “How could anyone, alone an angel, risk pampering a perfect queen like that?"

“Do you realise he has thirty-nine kinds of tea? Tristan only had four, and Aziraphale never complained."

“He is indulgent of humans’ inadequacies. After all, he’s had a lot more time on this planet to work out exactly what his preferences are. Don’t worry, you’ll get there. Darjeeling’s always a good bet, if you take into account which flush he is in the mood for."

Sandalphon didn’t answer as he pulled ahead, and Crowley felt a jolt of joy. It _had_ confused him a little that Sandalphon of all people should be willing to marry a Principality, but he had put it down, as well to the fact that Aziraphale was obviously the most desirable being on the planet, to Sandalphon being so sex-starved and affection-starved that he had seized on the first sympathetic angel around. Crowley, while not _technically_ sex-starved, understood all about frustration.

That Tristan had actually been the one attracted to Aziraphale and that Sandalphon had just become confused had never occurred to him. But if that was true, then this was going to be easier than he had hoped.

“Don’t forget to pull out his chair,” he warned, heading to do the same for Dagon, who simpered at him.

“This is a gastropub, better be careful with the food,” Dagon said and shook with silent laughter. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure of the joke.2

He forgot his concerns for a while as he avidly watched Aziraphale pick with delicate relish through his venison carpaccio. He didn’t even mind pushing his barely tasted salmon to Dagon after they devoured the terrine, too fascinated by watching the enchanted expressions flit across Aziraphale’s face. He would much have preferred to be dining alone, but Aziraphale tasting a new dish was always worthwhile. Sandalphon seemed oddly preoccupied and apart from the enraptured little group, only speaking to say:

“What are those animals doing in here?"

“It’s a dog friendly-pub, sir,” their waiter said cheerfully. "Famous for it."

That managed to make Aziraphale look up from his gruyere tart. “Oh!” His cheeks glowed pink as he looked at the most unattractive, slathering, mangey looking dog in the place. “What a sweetie! Come here, darling."

The creature slinked across, bearing with it a scent of deep bog, as its owner grinned with delight at having his pet admired. Crowley examined the yellow eyes above its dripping maw, wondering if Dagon had managed to sneak a hellhound in, but saw purely canine malevolence.

He was pretty sure, however, that it was down to Dagon that the repulsive creature put its head on Sandalphon’s lap and redoubled its salivation, pulling a hideous purple lip back over yellow teeth. The archangel froze, watching in horror as drool pooled on his perfect cashmere trousers.

“Oh, he likes you!” cooed Aziraphale. “Maybe he’s hungry. Sandalphon, you wouldn’t mind giving doggie the rest of your steak, would you? Dogs do like steak so much."

Sandalphon looked at the half-eaten steak on his plate, down at the hideous animal, which was now staring directly at him as Aziraphale scratched in behind the ears, and then with a look of despair, lifted the steak in his fingers and offered it to the dog.

The dog snatched it, wolfed it down disgustingly, and headed back to its owner, whacking the archangel hard with its tail on the way, leaving a miasma of stench in its wake.

“The poppet!” enthused Aziraphale, digging into the rest of his tart. “Maybe we should get one. The cottage seems quite lonely without pets."

Sandalphon was very quiet and thoughtful for the rest of the main course.

“Now, pudding,” Dagon said happily.

“So many choices!” sighed Aziraphale. “How can I choose?” He opened his eyes very wide.

“Oh, we’ll just order them all,” Dagon said. “Four of everything, please.”

“You do realise we have eight desserts on offer, and some of them are quite large?” The waiter looked worried. “I mean, that’s twelve flavours of ice cream alone if you count the sorbet."

“Oh, I’m quite sure we’ll manage, dear boy,” said Aziraphale, a steely glint of determination in his eyes.

Half an hour later, Crowley, in some delirious state of bliss, was reluctantly admitting to himself that Dagon had their ideas. Sometimes he would order a dessert he didn’t want just to ensure Aziraphale had two, eking out the pleasure of watching him eat, but it would never have occurred to him just to order multiples of everything on the menu. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale indulge like this since feasts and orgies of old, and the feasts and orgies of old had never involved watching Aziraphale slowly mouth black forest mousse off a spoon, eyelashes fluttering. Even Dagon’s eating had become somewhat automatic, methodically shoving food into their mouth while they watched Aziraphale croon and sigh.

“That’s almost sinful,” said Sandalphon. It was something Crowley had thought, or even said, many times, but Sandalphon’s tone was very different. He seemed vaguely repulsed, and Crowley mentally ticked pleasure in watching Aziraphale enjoy himself down to Tristan once more. He was going to have to be careful around Tristan, if they spent much time in the village.

“It’s not _technically_ gluttony though, is it?” Crowley pointed out, realising with some glee that Sandalphon had started confiding in him, of all beings. He determined to be a sympathetic and consoling demon. “I mean, I’m all for gluttony, me, but fair’s fair. Enjoying something isn't a sin. You used to like your food back in the human days, if I recall."

"Behold, this was the iniquity of thy sister Sodom, pride, _fulness of bread,_ and abundance of idleness was in her and in her daughters,” murmured Sandalphon.3

“Urgh. Look, take a tip from me, if you want a happy marriage, _don’t_ go around reminding Aziraphale of Sodom and Gomorra,” said Crowley, gleefully reflecting that _he_ intended to bring it up at every opportunity. "He wouldn’t eat salt for nearly two centuries.” Besides, Crowley thought, the next bit was all about not helping the poor and needy, and Aziraphale was all about loving-kindness. Not that Crowley was going to quote the Bible to the same bloody Dominion who had smitten all those poor pathetic humans, especially since Aziraphale tended to wax rather sarcastic about Biblical accounts of anything. “Look how generous Aziraphale was with the steak. Besides, it’s Hell’s money. Spent on an angel. Doesn’t that amuse you?"

“I should pay."

“I shouldn’t bother. Aziraphale has expensive tastes, and your side doesn’t pay particularly well, does it?” Crowley said, ignoring the fact that Aziraphale had managed, in one way or another to amass enough money to keep himself in comfort for millennia. “You need to save up for when you’re married and Aziraphale starts to feel it is improper to let demons buy him things."

“It’s not improper already?” Sandalphon gritted his teeth.

“Hey, you tell me, you’re dining on Hell’s paycheck right now."

Sandalphon sighed. “I’m under orders to increase cooperation between Heaven and Hell,” he said, distaste dripping off his teeth, “in light of the new era."

“And you get free treacle tart out of it. Cheers.” Crowley lifted his glass, but Sandalphon failed to smash his against it. Crowley pouted, and Aziraphale distracted his attention from the prune pudding long enough to clink his own glass against Crowley’s, eyes shining with fondness.

“Isn’t this fun?"

“Gorgeous,” Crowley said sincerely, leaning across the table and lifting a spoon of white chocolate ice cream to Aziraphale’s mouth, just like he had tempted him with ices in Georgian ballrooms so long ago. He wished with all his heart that they were alone, but Sandalphon’s clear discomfort next to him was a pleasure all of his own.

“Hey, Sandy, a word?” Dagon said suddenly. “Step outside with me for a second, will you?"

Sandalphon looked startled but not displeased to be leaving the table. The two of them stood, and as they passed the back of Crowley’s chair, Dagon rested a heavy hand on Crowley’s thin shoulder for a moment, and icy pain raced down through him, as if the marrow of his bones was turned to nitrogen.

“Good job, serpent,” Dagon said, leaving with the archangel as Crowley crumpled with pain.

Aziraphale instantly forgot about his pudding, dropping his spoon and rushing over to cradle the demon’s head in his hands. “Crowley, what’s wrong? Are you all right?"

“Oh, I’m fucking marvellous,” Crowley said, barely taking a moment to snap his fingers before pulling Aziraphale down onto his lap. The restaurant froze around them as he wrapped his arms tightly around the angel, rejoicing in the perfect heaviness of Aziraphale, and the demonic power flooding back into his being.

“Dagon relented?"

“Yeah. I think you’ve put them in a good mood. You’re being amazing."

“Congratulations, dear heart,” Aziraphale said and crushed his mouth to Crowley’s.

“Sweet existence, I love you, you annoying bastard,” Crowley said fondly, drawing his hand through soft curls, when their lips parted.

“Am I _really_ that annoying?” Aziraphale asked, his brow creasing a little.

“Oh _yes_,” Crowley breathed, kissing him again. “My spoiled irritating angel."

“I'm not actually trying all that hard to be annoying, you know."

“I know.” Crowley kissed his neck where it met his collar. “I can’t hold time for much longer, angel. Just promise me, even if this fails, you won’t leave me."

“Don’t be ridiculous. If Sandalphon is too stubborn, then we’ll figure something else out.” Aziraphale took a trembling breath. “I miss you calling me your husband. I’ve spent all my time on Earth trying not to think about it, trying not to think about wanting _you_, and now I’ve started it’s like I can’t bear to be apart for a moment."

“Oh, my _love._ My angel, my darling, my husband.” Crowley pressed more kisses against his neck. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ve belonged to you a very long time. It’s just that you’ve realised it."

“I love you with all my heart,” Aziraphale said. “I would _Fall_ for you. I was so afraid, and now I don’t care at all."

“Please don’t Fall. It will be all right. My _husband_,” Crowley repeated, firmly.

“My husband,” Aziraphale repeated gently, and Crowley felt a burning pain on his finger. He looked down, only to see a golden glow around his left ring finger. Under the skin. Shining like an angel mark. He had a moment of panic, but—no, still a demon. Not an angel mark, then. A ring...

“Surely not. Blessed by _Her_?"

Aziraphale lifted his own hand, wonderingly, and there was a red ring under his skin, pulsing like Hellfire.

“It seems _He_ agrees,” he said, with something like panic. “Crowley..."

Time snapped back, and Aziraphale fled to the other side of the table just in time, as their—friends?—entered. Of course, the time stop wouldn’t have affected them, only the humans.

“Right,” Dagon announced. “Phase Three of Angels' Romantic Day Out. Time to get nude."

* * *

1 Fashion show. Dagon wears [a Tory Burch dress](https://www.toryburch.eu/convertible-ruffle-dress/57510.html) only in dull charcoal and brown to fit their aesthetic. I do not endorse shark leather, but they are a fricking demon.↩

2 Dagon has spent some time sorting out reports from Australia, where “gastro” basically means “diarrhoea”, and a local demon specialises in undermining food hygiene.↩

3 Ezekiel 16:49 (KJV) : Behold, this was the iniquity of thy sister Sodom, pride, fulness of bread, and abundance of idleness was in her and in her daughters, neither did she strengthen the hand of the poor and needy.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Sorry folks. I meant to get to the promised nudity this chapter, but Aziraphale was hungry.
> 
> 2) I don’t know how many chapters of this thing are left, but I can _see the end_. There will be Raphael and Michael (can't leave out the mother of the bride) and Daniel and Beezlebub and the Metatron. There will be wedding bells. We are on the downhill slope.
> 
> After all, their marriage has been blessed by Heaven and Hell, terrifying though that is. The rest is just technicalities. Seeing that Satan gave approval due to Aziraphale being ready to Fall, let's hope there won't be a custody battle.


	23. Impossible princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really, how bad could it be? It's just a double date at a spa.

Crowley and Aziraphale, as a being, shoved their left hands under the table. Crowley was rocketing between bliss and sheer panic so fast that the verbal centres of his brain couldn’t catch up. Married—-but—Satan—angel mark—_Her?_—married.

The single complex thought was that if Dagon saw an angel mark on him and misunderstood, he was _discorporated_. Crowley tried a quick disguise miracle and checked his hand under the table. The gold marks glittered mockingly at him. Of course, it wasn't going to be that easy. If God or the Devil marked you, they marked you for good. Or evil.

Married. Surely this meant they were married.

They just had to survive it.

He could see the same panic and joy fighting on Aziraphale’s face, only more intelligently. Poor darling, nothing marked out an angel as a candidate for a potential Fall as fast as Hellfire accessories. It might warn Sandalphon off marrying him fast, but the chances of smiting first were high, and Crowley wasn't sure where on the respective power bases Dagon and Sandlaphon were, even if Dagon bothered to help out. Probably wouldn’t, no matter how much lovely paperwork interfering in Heaven disciplining their own would cause.

Perhaps they could keep their hands shoved in their pockets out of sight. Thank existence they were in male corporations with proper trousers. Or gloves. It was chilly, after all, and they could miracle up some gloves.

“If you’ve had _quite_ enough, darling,” Dagon said, putting an affectionate hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, "it’s time to head for the spa. Just over in the next town."

“Oh, _that’s_ what you meant by nudity. You _are_ wicked to tease,” Aziraphale said with an impressive facsimile of burbling with excitement, despite the terror in his cloudy eyes.

“Wicked is my job, but… well, wait and see.” Dagon grinned toothily at them all, and Crowley felt a weird combination of amusement and terror. “But we’re going to start off nice and respectably with some pampering. You strike me as an angel who would enjoy a really indulgent manicure."

As Aziraphale blanched, Crowley was sure that somewhere, deep Below, Satan was pissing Himself laughing.

Dagon was the only chatty one in the car. Crowley, as the skinniest in the group, was relegated to the back middle seat, while Aziraphale swanned naturally into the front. Sandalphon on one side of him and Dagon on the other was not exactly the most relaxed of configurations, especially as the heady smell of figs and caviar from Dagon was making Crowley feel a little dizzy.1Dagon was chipper as, well, Hell, while Sandalphon kept eyeing Aziraphale in the front seat, his expression dark and thoughtful. Aziraphale himself managed to go past an antiquarian bookshop without asking to stop, which seemed unnatural.

“Wait, stop!” Aziraphale touched the driver’s shoulder, and Crowley wondered if he’d realised his mistake and wanted to drive back.

“What now?” asked Sandalphon.

“I have an idea to celebrate our special day,” Aziraphale beamed. “Someone be a dear and lend me a credit card?"

Dagon was marginally faster than Crowley in whipping his out.

“Thank you, my dear. I’ll be back in a jiffy, you all wait and have a lovely chat.” Aziraphale vanished in the direction of a jeweller, and Crowley relaxed a little.

“Shouldn’t we follow him?” Sandalphon asked uncertainly.

“He said to wait. I think he wants to treat us with expensive and shiny material objects, the sweet considerate thing,” Dagon said.

“With someone else’s money."

“You can’t expect him to pay,” Crowley pointed out. “You know what his pay grade is. That place looks pricey. And he has a book hoarding habit to support."

Sandalphon sighed.

The driver, who obviously considered them all friends after yesterday’s drive, said: “You know, I was wondering. Which of you is Mr Fell's—I mean, I assumed it was Mr Crowley, because Mr Fell looks, er--but—"

“Whose kept men Ezra is?” Dagon asked brightly. “I’m sharing the responsibility of keeping him the luxury he deserves with Anthony. But he’s actually engaged to lucky Sandy here."

“Oh! Congratulations! To—to you, in particular, sir, Mr Fell is a complete angel, but to all of you. It’s so charming when older people still manage that kind of arrangement and be cherished like that. Not that I mean you are old, um.” She descended into blushes, probably wondering why she had felt an almost demonic push towards giving in to the temptation to be overly familiar.

“There was a time,” Sandalphon said coldly, “when age was admired as a sign of status and wisdom."

“Don’t mind old Mr Grumpy,” Dagon said. “He started losing his hair when he was about two hundred years old, and he’s never really got over it. Human bodies can be tricky. I think a receding hairline is distinguished and handsome, myself."

The driver giggled.

Aziraphale returned miraculously fast, thrusting boxes at them. “Welcome to the angel and demon date club!” he chortled.

Crowley opened his and stared with reluctant admiration. A rose gold snake, looking a him with malachite eyes. It was very bulky, very ostentatious, he suspected very pricey, and the diamonds weren’t even big ones, they were bloody pavé. It was truly dreadful.2

And it was more than thick enough to cover his angel marks.

Dagon flipped their box open. There was a hideous burst of tiny spheres on top, in gold, pink diamond and diamonds.3

“I thought it looked a bit like fish eggs,” Aziraphale said happily. “Because you are, wellI don't like to say it."

“It’s the tackiest thing I've ever seen, I _adore_ it. I’ll never take it off."

Everyone, including the driver, turned to Sandalphon. The archangel took a deep breath and flipped open his box.

Aziraphale had outdone himself. The ring was huge and glittered with pave diamonds and sickly green malachite. It stood a full quarter of an inch high above the massive band, and the face of a roman emperor glared from the setting. It was one of the ugliest things Crowley had ever seen.4

Sandalphon, in his exquisitely tailored, tasteful suit, looked at the expectant watchers. Aziraphale's eyes were wide, hopeful, vulnerable. Sandalphon visibly steeled himself and slid the monstrous thing onto his plump finger.

“How charming,” he said courageously.

Crowley took advantage of the fascination in the group to slip his own ring on. “What about you, angel?"

“Oh, I’m already wearing mine.” Aziraphale held out a beautiful hand on which the Hellfire mark was cunningly disguised by a sleek, tasteful, simple ring of gold, inset with a single perfect cognac diamond.”It’s not as fancy as yours, I’m only a modest Principality, but I think it’s rather nice."

Crowley could hear Sandalphon’s dry swallow.

“It’s almost like we all got married to each other!” Dagon said merrily, and the driver looked inches away from clucking maternally at them all.

“I got you a present, too, young lady!” Aziraphale said cheerfully, dropping a simple gold bracelet on the driver’s lap. “For being such a lovely, patient guide. A blessing comes with it."

“Oh, you are so lovely! Thank you!” She smiled at him. “What does a Principality do, anyway?"

“I spread happiness, goodness and support to those who need it. Selflessly."

“You must be terribly good at it."

“I try, my dear, I try."

Crowley wondered what bizarre story the driver was making up about them in her mind. He was sure it couldn’t be stranger than reality.

* * *

An hour later, they were all in bathrobes, and three of them waited with different degrees of impatience as Aziraphale’s nails were finished up. He and Crowley had refused to take off their rings, and the beauticians had finally given up.

“Look, they are perfectly even and smooth,” snapped a lady who was seriously reconsidering her career choice.

“I know you’re doing your best, dear girl, but perhaps a finer grit nail file?"

“This is as fine as it gets,” said the manicurist through her forced smile.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said amiably. “Petra at my usual place has a much squeakier one. Try a new one, just in case?"

The manicurist picked up a new file. Crowley felt mildly sorry for the human. She had no idea there were two demons in the room blunting her files as soon as she took them out. He felt sorry for Aziraphale’s nails. Still, in the name of true love, sacrifices had to be made, and he would make it up to Aziraphale later with the most expensive hand cream money could buy, except for the ones with sheep foetus, because that was, Crowley felt, just gross.

"Are you sure this cuticle is pushed back enough?” Aziraphale asked suspiciously.

“Need me to curssse anyone for you, darling?” Crowley asked, patting his shoulder solicitously and glaring at the girl. The manicurist gave him a bitter look.

“Of course not,” Aziraphale reproached. "She’s trying _very_ hard, aren’t you, dear? No one is born perfect at their job. It’s a useful learning experience for her."

The manicurist looked like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to drop dead, or for Aziraphale to drop dead. Even without his powers, Crowley had the satisfying sense that when this woman left the room she was going to sin, and sin hard, with maximum viciousness and spite.

“Can we go have the massages now?” Sandalphon asked in a tight voice.

Crowley wasn’t actually very keen on massages, but he _was_ keen on lying next to a naked Aziraphale having oils rubbed over all that luscious soft flesh It was something he had arranged for quite often over the centuries. He was annoyed that Dagon somehow managed to have Aziraphale put between themself and Sandalphon, with Crowley stuck on the outside next to his bloody line manager. He wasn’t sure at all what was going on. He took comfort in Dagon’s increasing air of smugness, and a slight complaining tone in Aziraphale’s murmurs.

“Going well?” Dagon hissed at him, while their masseuses went across to try and figure out what was wrong with Aziraphale.

“Brilliantly, I think."

“Aziraphale apparently forgot to tell the gentleman the exact temperature he likes his oil heated to, and his iced tea was over-brewed, and his towel wasn’t soft and warm enough, but he’s getting it all sorted out now.” Dagon sighed with affectionate admiration, while Crowley felt a little guilty. He would make it up to Aziraphale for his interference later. Aziraphale could have all the oiled massages in the word, and Crowley wouldn’t ice the oil even once. “I think Sandy is on the verge of turning ravishingly nasty. Let’s make sure the rest of Hell never find out how adorable angels are these days, or we’ll be contending with a mass Rise."

Crowley made a noncommittal noise, despite his grin.

“Jacuzzi next,” Dagon said happily. “I’ve booked it out privately and made sure no staff will intrude, so no need for swimsuits. I’m sure I can depend on you to live _up_ to the occasion and terrify my Sandy."

“You bitch,” Crowley said.

* * *

Undressing while Dagon stood in a towel watching them and grinning with double rows of teeth was a tad unsettling. The three of them disrobed and slid into the hot water in a fairly embarrassed manner.

“It’s so good to be alone. I can take my true form at last. ”Dagon dropped their towel and lowered themselves into the water, legs combining and merging into a long graceful tail, as they took on a form they hadn’t been seen by humans in since the days of Babylon. The three of them watched in a moment of awed fascination, which quickly turned into the two angels turning red and looking away, while Crowley turned equally red with fury.

“I’m a snake, and _I_ wasn’t allowed two penises in corporeal form,” he hissed. “Greedy, you said. And those are unfeasibly huge."

“Technically, they’re claspers,” Dagon said, adjusting their arms along the side of the jacuzzi to best display their breasts to advantage. “Jealous?"

“I hate you."

“A good and proper attitude to have toward your supervisor,” Dagon said approvingly.

“Do—do you use both at once?” Sandalphon asked, as if the question was torn from him against his will.

“Not usually, but I’m always open to experimentation. Did you notice the little teeth?"

“I did,” Sandalphon said faintly.

“Demons really do seem to have more creativity when it comes to forms,” Aziraphale said brightly, looking everywhere but at Dagon. “Maybe we’re all just a bit hidebound in Heaven."

“Some have more creativity than others,” Crowley muttered.

“Oh, no, dear, I think you look very fetching with just the one,” Aziraphale said, patting him comfortingly on the arm. “No need to feel inadequate."

“I hate _you_, too."

Aziraphale beamed at him, and Crowley, taking in Aziraphale with his most radiant smile, hair damp, little beads of moisture on his wonderful shoulders and soft, heat-pink chest, the bare thigh just inches from his own bare skin, and without recourse to miracles, considered abandoning all dignity and bolting from the room before he embarrassed himself.

“Oh, Heaven apparently doesn’t do too badly by its soldiers,” Dagon said, unabashedly staring between one angelic pair of legs and then the other. “Glad they see the point of generous endowments. But then, you were born in this form, weren’t you, Sandy? Only small and helpless with no wings. Human bodies are weird,” added the demon merperson with a pair of gigantic toothed claspers.

“Could you _please_ put them away? Or retract them against your body or something?"

Dagon sighed and rolled their eyes, pulling the… _things_… to sit neatly along their tail. “Such a prude, Crowley. I don’t know how you managed to Fall at all, let alone get assigned to Temptations."

Sandalphon gave Crowley an odd look, which he didn’t know how to read.

“So,” Aziraphale said agreeably, “When do we start? I confess I haven’t been to an orgy for centuries and I’ve forgotten the etiquette. Shouldn’t there be wine and grapes first?"

Sandalphon looked at him in stark horror, and Aziraphale smiled kindly back, patting his arm. “Don’t worry, dear. I know you haven’t spent much time on Earth for a while, but I’m rusty, too. That’s why it’s useful to have some demons around to show us the ropes."

“I’m good with ropes,” Crowley said. “I can be about the same shape when I like."

“So clever,” Aziraphale said fondly.”Is this water really the right temperature?"

“I’ll warm it up three and a half degrees for you, angel. Would that be all right?"

“Perfect.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a melting look. “Can you manage any ice water to drink? Be careful about the mineral content."

“I don’t remember agreeing to an orgy,” Sandalphon said desperately. “Aziraphale and I haven’t even—well."

“Kissed properly?” Dagon asked. “Oh, no. You might need some practice, you’ve been in Heaven so long. Not much for discos and orgies, your lot, and I’ve heard Aziraphale can be quite demanding and finicky about these things."

“I’m absolutely sure he can,” Sandalphon said tightly. “Wait—where did you hear that? What kind of an angel—?"

Dagon rolled their pretty blue eyes. “Crowley is sitting _right there_, you know. No need to be impolite just because he’s a demon and only a Count. Poor serpent does his worst. Look, don’t be intimidated. Cheer up, old friend —you know you can always depend on me to look after you."

They leaned across, wrapped slender arms around Sandalphon’s plump shoulders, and kissed him.

Crowley watched with interest as Sandalphon froze, then his arms came up and held Dagon for just a few long moments before he pushed them away.

“I have had it,” he said, “with this whole ludicrous affair.” There was a flash of light and he vanished upwards.

“Well, that was pleasant,” Dagon said contentedly. “Been meaning to try that for centuries. I’m pretty sure he kissed back for a while there. There was _tongue_, I hope he didn’t cut it too badly. And then outrage. He’s so adorable."

“Rather you than me,” said Crowley. "Yeah, he definitely kissed back. Congratulations."

“It’s shocking,” Aziraphale said, pouting. “Well, the engagement is definitely off. It’s unacceptable to make out with a demon in front of your fiancé."

“Yeah, much more angelic to do it behind his back like you,” Dagon agreed.”Well, sorry about the orgy, but I don’t want to lose ground by having one without him. I should take Nell off ice too, we need to feed her cats. Thanks for all your help, Aziraphale, I know turning to you for romantic help was a good idea. You two are an inspiration to demons trying to seduce angels everywhere, even if you move a bit slow."

“A pleasure to help,” Aziraphale said. "Give my love to Nell and the cats."

“Right. Bye lads, don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” Dagon vanished, leaving them alone.

“I think you did it,” Crowley said, wonderingly. “You clever, amazing angel."

“Oh, you and dear Dagon helped quite a bit,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley—we didn’t really have time to talk about it, but—does this mean we’re married?"

“I think so.” Crowley slid across, and decided that the only really comfortable way to get close was to sway onto Aziraphale’s lap. “_Angel_. Have I told you lately that I adore you?"

“Serpent,” said Aziraphale, and the tone was so different to the way Dagon or Sandalphon called him _serpent_ or _snake_, that together with the less perfectly manicured than usual hands sliding reverentially down his thin chest it made him feel sinuous, desirable, _beautiful_. Crowley barely had to lean in before eager lips were pulling at his, and...

“Sorry to interrupt again,” Dagon said in Nell’s voice, “but in any case, don’t get Crowley too excited in the water, Aziraphale. It’s not pleasant for the humans to clean up, and you are still, technically, an angel. Anyway, I forgot to drop off the paperwork."

“Paperwork?” Crowley blinked.

“Not for you, for him. Satan’s cursed his Fall, but there're terms and agreements to sign off on. Never existed in the old days, but then, I wasn’t in charge of the records those days.” They grinned. “Welcome to the team, Aziraphale. Your friend there guaranteed that I’d get you, and I must say, I think you’ll be a _delightful_ addition. I’m looking forward to it."

“He hasn’t Fallen!” Crowley said through gritted teeth.

“Of course not, he hasn’t done the paperwork yet,” Dagon said patiently. “When Sandy gets over being miffed a bit, expect him to turn up with _your_ paperwork, Crowley. Herself has blessed your Rise, if you choose, although I hope for worse from you for that. Don’t know what you did today to make Sandy think you’d make a good angel, but he’s bonkers."

“_What_?"

“I suppose you could swap places if you like,” Dagon said, in a bored tone. “Might be amusing. I’d prefer Aziraphale, given the choice between you, but I don’t really like giving up your minions. Up to you, really, but might cause a hitch in your nuptials. Let me know."

They vanished, leaving a neat stack of paper by the jacuzzi, and a horrified demon and angel.

* * *

1 I spend far too much time thinking about what perfumes they all wear, and I tend to err on the side of niche or, for Aziraphale, established purveyors to royalty like Creed, rather than mid-range designer perfumes. However, I am 100% sure that Dagon wears Womanity.↩

2 [Crowley’s ring](https://www.bulgari.com/en-au/356202.html)↩

3 [Dagon’s ring](https://www.au.cartier.com/en-au/collections/jewelry/collections/paris-nouvelle-vague/rings/n4244200-paris-nouvelle-vague-ring.html)↩

4 [Sandalphon’s ring](https://www.bulgari.com/en-au/355980.html)↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Thank you so much as always for sticking with me, for commenting and supporting. I am going to have to write some major angst next to get myself back to sanity.
> 
> 2) Next time I go back to the UK to visit family, I am insisting on some time in Petworth.
> 
> 3) Money can't buy taste, as Cartier and Bvlgari are determined to prove, but I feel bound to point out that the discontinued Bvlgari Black Unisex perfume is a treasure, and will make you smell like Crowley does in my head. (Like expensive burned rubber). If you see it, grab it.


	24. Now it's time to make you mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title probably works as a summary, to be honest. Yes, folks, it's chapter 24, time for some uninterrupted alone time.

The driver was reading on her phone in the spa restaurant. Crowley paid for her coffee, just because he _could_. He cursed all the coffee in the restaurant to be burned to make up for it, although with British customers it was less than even odds anyone would notice.

"Thank you! Where are your friends?" She glanced at their intertwined fingers and then away, blushing. "I'm sorry, shouldn't have asked."

"They'll make their own way home. Hey, um, miss--"

"Kylie," whispered Aziraphale.

"Kylie, forget everything we said before, my beautiful angel here is marrying _me_. Take us back to London? The bookshop where you first picked us up."

Aziraphale drew up even straighter than usual. "The bookshop? Why?"

"To get my car." Crowley's head was spinning, possibly because his blood kept deserting it at inopportune moments, but he knew one thing with desperate clarity. The Bentley was all alone, abandoned and missing her fathers.

Aziraphale stared at him, coldly. "The car can wait. Kylie, dear, can I engage you for tomorrow? We'll collect the Bentley then."

"But, angel--"

Aziraphale's soft face was firm as if too much gelatin had been added while pouring him into the mould. "Me or the Bentley. You can have one of us today, but not the other. Choose."

The blood deserted his brain again, to the point that when he tried to give the driver, who was trying not to laugh too obviously, the cottage address, he kept stumbling over it until Aziraphale gently took over.

"Whipped," the driver hissed at Crowley, as she opened the car door for him.

"Ssshut up," he hissed back, although his triumphant grin took the sting from it.

Crowley, who relished upsetting and embarrassing humans, wouldn't have minded at all making out in the back seat like a couple of teenagers being driven home from their leaver's ball after too much cider. Aziraphale, probably predicting that, had taken the front seat and was chatting with impressive composure.

Eventually, Crowley could stand it no longer. "Angel?"

"Hmm?" Aziraphale looked up from the driver's phone, on which he had been cooing over pictures of her children.

"I didn't guarantee you would leave your current place of employment. I wasn't headhunting for the two-dicked fish. I just guaranteed that if you lost your current position, there would be a place for you on our team."

“I gathered that, dear. Dagon just phrased it that way to be annoying. They like their little games."

"I'm more confused as to why, um, Enoch wants to recruit me."

Aziraphale pursed his lips. "I think he was impressed by how patient, kind and understanding you are in putting up with a monster like me."

"Oh, Ezra!" Whatshername the driver seemed to have progressed to first names. "Don't say such silly things. Anyone can tell you're a saint."

"An angel," Crowley agreed. "Not me, though. I was always shit at being an angel."

"Well, clearly Ezra likes bad boys. Just not too bad."

"Just don't describe me as not too bad in front of any of my colleagues," Crowley said, and she laughed again.

"Next time my boss annoys me, I'm calling him a two-dicked fish. Creative."

"Not as creative as you'd think," Crowley said.

They drew up the drive of the pink house at last. Crowley was vaguely relieved that this meant that whatshername, Kylie, at least, was not a demon or demon-possessed, although the way his luck was going she would probably turn out to be an archangel too. Or Daniel. He stared suspiciously at her, wondering if her seemingly benign interest meant she was the mysterious Principality of marriage checking up on them. He couldn't sense anything from her other than a kind of fond flusteredness caused by Aziraphale kissing her hand as he bid her farewell until tomorrow.

At least some of the people he encountered lately had to be genuinely human, even if it didn't feel like it.

Crowley detached Aziraphale and hustled him into the cottage somehow, not even pausing to test his recovered powers on the plant life. He pushed the door closed, locking it, as if that even mattered against immortal beings, and laid his head against it for a moment. His brain felt like it was battering against his skull as much as his heart was battering against his chest.

"Drink?" he asked, recovering himself, and dumping Dagon's papers on the nearest flat surface.

Aziraphale caught his left hand, and Crowley paused as fast and still as if Sandalphon was still around and playing one of his salt tricks. He only moved when Aziraphale started to draw the snake ring from his finger.

"Don't!" Panic rose in his throat. Aziraphale lifted a questioning eyebrow. "It's from you."

"It's incredibly vulgar, even for you."

"You chose it for me," Crowley said, stubbornly.

"And I'll choose you another, dear heart, while thinking about what you would like and not about the effect on Sandalphon."

That was unanswerable. Crowley let Aziraphale slide the ring off, and they both stared at the gold marks glimmering under translucent skin. Please let it be a mark of approval of marriage, not a statement of claim by Her, Crowley--prayed? Who would he pray to about this? But he would make a really shitty angel, just like he had the first time. Please, _Someone_, don't make my Rising a condition of having what I want.

He reached out with fumbling hands and drew the rose-gold band from Aziraphale's finger. Hellfire danced under the angel's skin, no less strange than the first time he had glimpsed it. Why wasn't he burning? Was it only benign while they still held the contract for Aziraphale's fall? If Dagon--if _Satan_ lost patience, would this ring begin to burn Aziraphale up from the inside, consuming him?

Crowley's hand started to shake, and he pulled Aziraphale's hand to his mouth to kiss his index finger as if he could draw the fire out of it and into himself, protect him with sheer love.

"Crowley." He looked up into a face so fierce with affection that his legs, never reliable, began to give out under him. Strong hands guided him to a couch. "It's all right, dearest. We're safe here for the moment."

"Until Sandalphon turns up with another pile of paperwork."

"He won't. We're sealed against angelic intrusion here as well now. Do you think I'd risk him turning up in the kitchen without warning again? I might be _busy._"

"We can't avoid it forever. We need to talk. Make a plan."

"_Busy,_" Aziraphale repeated firmly, taking Crowley's face in both hands. "With my new husband."

"Oh. Busy," said Crowley, frozen in the absolute terror of wondering if all his dreams were going to come true _right now_ and what if he had misunderstood... He stared at the delicious dent just under Aziraphale's lower lip as if hypnotised, until Aziraphale gave a breathless, half frustrated laugh, and kissed him.

It was slow and tender and with barely veiled hunger behind it. What kind of demon was Crowley to be hesitating? He was being kissed with what seemed to be lustful intent by a glorious beautiful angel and they were apparently _married_ and he loved him, loved him. There was nothing to stop them and oh how he _wanted_ this, wanted it with all of his being. He pushed Aziraphale's lips open with his, tasted his tongue, tempted out that veiled hunger, and dropped backwards across the couch, pulling Aziraphale on top of him.

Aziraphale's lips parted from his to protest mildly, "I'll crush you."

"_Yeah,_" said Crowley enthusiastically, and writhed enough to wind his calves around the back of Aziraphale's own. Aziraphale laughed and then shuddered as Crowley thrust his hips up sharply.

"Too much?" Crowley asked, aware that Aziraphale must have felt he was hardening already, as always over-eager and moving too fast.

"I don't think anything could be too much for me right now," Aziraphale confessed, and Crowley's vision blurred, bless it all, he was crying with desire, how ridiculous was that? And it was fogging up his damn glasses, it was like a greenhouse in there, he couldn't see Aziraphale properly through the blur and he needed to see him.

Aziraphale lifted the glasses from his face, and set them neatly on the floor. "Oh, my sweet boy." Aziraphale kissed him in the sweet familiar pattern, mouth, eye, eye, mouth, gathering tears on his lips. The ritual soothed Crowley and at the same time sent lust blazing hotter than ever through him. Aziraphale had barely completed the fourth kiss before Crowley was kissing him again, his tongue moving to taste his own tears on soft pink lips and pushing further into his mouth.

"I _do_ love you, you know," Crowley said. "I've loved you so much and so long, so very long."

"I know." Soft lips on the sensitive skin just below his eyes, where it was still wet. "I love you, my precious friend. My _husband_," and the word was electricity. "And there's nothing to fear now."

It wasn't true, of course it wasn't true, there was so much to fear, and Crowley didn't care, because Aziraphale's full weight was on him, satisfying and perfect, and his voice and face was full of love, nothing hidden or danced around or denied, and--oh, Aziraphale, everything came down to Aziraphale, it always had.

With perfect infernal timing, Crowley's phone chimed with _Danse Macabre._ Crowley squirmed around to get it out of his pocket, noting with interest how much trouble Aziraphale had pouting when he moved like that and glanced at the message.

"Hang on a minute."

"Crowley, _really._

Crowley winked at him, swiped the words "No, my Lord, he hasn't bloody signed yet. Now stop calling and texting, I'm fucking my husband" and tossed the phone onto the rug.

He turned, smirking, and then shrivelled up under what was currently a very green gaze, under a raised eyebrow.

"Um. I mean. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have presumed--"

"Looked like a promise to me," Aziraphale breathed, and kissed him again. Crowley's brain decided it didn't have any space for any thoughts other than _It's really happening_ and _Aziraphale Aziraphale Aziraphale_ and anyway thinking was overrated.

When his head cleared a little he could tell Aziraphale was gazing down with him with a _look_. The look was accompanied by bright eyes and a gently quirked mouth and Satan and God and everyone else, how could anyone look that adorable and that beddable both at once?

"You're still wearing the jeans from Harrods."

"What? Well, yeah, barely," Crowley admitted, seeing that he was nearly bursting out of them at this point. "I liked them, and after all, my sugar daddy bought them. Thought he should see my arse in them as much as possible, although it's not as alluring as his." He ran his hands over curved flesh, squeezing, and Aziraphale's breath shuddered satisfactorily in response.

"Oh, I think it's perfect. But have you figured out how to take them off without miracles yet?"

Crowley shivered. "Maybe?" he asked hopefully. "Could you help?"

"Shoes first." Aziraphale's shoes ran down the inside of Crowley's calves and pushed. Maybe a little demonic miracle was needed to get Crowley's own boots off this way, but it was worth it for the unexpectedly wonderful sensation of Aziraphale's shoe soles knocking and scraping against his calves. Knocking boots, he thought feverishly, what a wonderful expression.

"Then?"

Deft hands unlatching the snake belt. Crowley caught them for a moment, repentantly kissed the slightly rough edges of Aziraphale's nails. "I'm sorry about the manicure. I'll make it up to you, you'll have the most pampered nails on the planet."

"That _was_ you, then. That really was terrible of you. That poor lady."

"_You_ were the one being a perfect prissy bastard to her. Fuck, I adore you." Distracted, always so easily distracted, he kissed a nail, a fingertip, then meeting Aziraphale's ardent look, slowly took the finger into his mouth in focused swallows, holding his gaze all along, hollowing his cheek, until his lips met Aziraphale's hand. Showing off. What was the point of skills if they weren't for his angel, anyway?

"Crowley."

He released the finger and kissed Aziraphale's palm. "Thought I should let you know that I don't have a gag reflex. _Snake_," he said smugly, feeling Aziraphale hard against his hipbone, resisting the urge to just buck and lose it just as they were.

"_Crowley_," Aziraphale repeated, flushed and breathless and oh so beautiful, but determined. He took his hand back and undid Crowley's fly. "Oh, you've seen the point of underwear now."

"Can't blame me. Getting stuck _hurt_." Crowley lifted his hips and let Aziraphale ease the jeans down lower. "Disappointed?"

"Not at all." Aziraphale ran a finger over the straining black cotton, tracing the shape of balls that were already high and tight, trailing up the hard length, exploring and stroking and surrounding and squeezing. What were words, anyway? Crowley couldn't remember any, no matter how determined his throat was to make noises. Aziraphale, his pure sweet angel, as delicately intent on learning the shape of his arousal as if he was running gloved hands over a precious new manuscript. He felt more helpless than if he had been chained down.

"Told you that you were fetching with just one."

"Oh, shut--" Crowley finished with a yelp as Aziraphale's finger found where the fabric was already damp against the head of his cock, and it twitched in response, becoming wetter. "Angel, I can't bear this, I can't last. Please."

"_My_ demon," said Aziraphale and mouthed him through the cotton.

It was too much. Crowley keened and came and came, the wetness flooding from one spot to soak through, his hips jerking, while Aziraphale's mouth stayed warm on him through the underwear, one hand stroking his exposed hip, one reaching up so Crowley's flailing hand could find it and squeeze desperately as the angel's mouth caressed him through the orgasm.

"Sorry, sorry, oh darling, I love you, sorry."

"Don't be sorry, my beautiful, glorious love." Aziraphale pushed himself back up him, not seeming to care about pressing his beautifully pressed trousers against Crowley's mess, kissed him and pressed adoring kisses over his face. "To think you want me so much.."

"I always did." He turned his head back and forth, trying to catch the darting kisses on his lips. "Always, always." He started to make a gesture with the hand that wasn't still clutching Aziraphale's, but Aziraphale caught it.

"I want you to think about who is probably currently monitoring our miracles right now."

"Oh."

"Let's get you clean."

"But angel, you..." Crowley pressed his thigh up against the evidence that while Aziraphale might not be as precipitate as he was, he was hardly unmoved. Hardly. Heh. Crowley's pleasure-dazzled mind found that giddying funny and he giggled in a most undemonic way.

"Shower first," Aziraphale said firmly.

He clasped his arms around Aziraphale's soft, perfectly padded hips, settling his hands where he could settle his fingers around the curve of his buttocks and dig the tips in. "Not letting go," he said stubbornly. "Mine."

"I'll be coming with you, you idiotic demon."

"Oh," Crowley said happily. "Promise?" He tried for a seductive wink.

"Well, I rather think that's up to you. Besides, don't you think we're both still overdressed? I let myself be distracted." Aziraphale was pink, and Crowley forgot about being flirty and seductive for the moment and just embraced him tightly, feeling like he was bursting with love.

"I'll make it good for you, I promise, angel. I'm sorry I was selfish and lost control," he added, bright red to Aziraphale's pink.

"You weren't being selfish, my dearest. I needed to know..." Aziraphale's voice trailed off for a bit, then said with what sounded like forced courage, "I needed to know you really wanted me."

"Always you, always. I-- I _adore_ you," Crowley said, although on the tip of his tongue was the word _worship_ and that was just one more reason he would make a terrible angel. _You're the only goodness I believe in,_ he wanted to say, and held the words back because they would hurt Aziraphale. "I told you in the hotel you could have me if you wanted me. You--you _have_ me. Always did. And I have you."

"Not yet," Aziraphale said primly, and Crowley laughed and kissed him.

"We'll see what we can do about that," he promised, and released his grip enough to let Aziraphale stand and lead him upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) So I lied about uninterrupted, but only by chapter breaks. Aziraphale probably deserves to be the one to be left hanging for a bit. See you next time.
> 
> 2) Title from "On a night like this".


	25. To be so adored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Patience, angel. Let me love you, I've waited so long. Love me too, love me always."
> 
> "Always, my Crowley." A blessing, a benediction he was unworthy of, but he was twice damned if he wouldn't take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is three thousand words of lovemaking. I have warned you.
> 
> If you've been holding out for Crowley and Aziraphale getting to heaven, so to speak, I hope you have fun. If you're here for the plot, you won't miss any if you skip this, see you next chapter, I guess! Love you either way, thank you for reading and encouraging and being awesome.

They made it upstairs to the bathroom somehow, arms looped around each other as if afraid to let go, Crowley undignifiedly half hanging out of his jeans and not caring. He gave the hot tub a brief look, but he really didn't want to think about the rest of the day right now, only of Aziraphale.

He sat down on the loo instead, and tried to deal with all the awkward business of undressing like a human, made even more awkward by not wanting to glance away from Aziraphale for a moment. He didn't want to miss the unbuttoning of a single button, the removal of a single one of the layers that Aziraphale felt was necessary for late November. Eventually, Crowley gave up and just watched, taking in every inch of revealed skin, every roll and crease, finally with the right to stare with unveiled infatuation. It was all he could do not to circle hungrily as Aziraphale, even in these circumstances, even with the angel's erection bobbing up against the fullness of his stomach, neatly removed and meticulously folded his clothes. It made no sense that fussiness was so damned sexy; still, there it was.

As a result Crowley was still in a t-shirt and jeans halfway down his legs when Aziraphale turned to put the final pieces on the chair by the door. The sight of him bending was too much. Crowley launched himself forward to embrace him and drape over his back.

Or at least that was the idea. On execution, the jeans and knickers still around his ankles had other ideas and Crowley lurched awkwardly and lost his balance instead, ending up grabbing at Aziraphale's knees to save himself from knocking his head on the hot tub.

Aziraphale looked down at him, bare-arsed and collapsed on the bathroom floor and hanging around the angel's knees, and said, "I see you haven't _quite_ mastered undressing yet."

"Oh, shut it." The twinkle in Aziraphale's eyes was too much for him, he was laughing helplessly. He had imagined being with Aziraphale more often than there were stars in the sky, had imagined tenderly worshipping him or fucking him into the wall or being helpless as Aziraphale drove into him or coming together in slow rutting against each other. Every variation, he had thought, every possibility, and none of them had involved shooting off when Aziraphale had barely touched him or falling on the bathroom floor while trying to embrace him. Somehow, miraculously, it was still all right. _Perfect._

He clambered up to deal with the rest of his clothes as Aziraphale turned on the water and stepped into the shower, which was really more of a wetroom, compared to the baths in the other two bathrooms. Humble cottage indeed, his decadent angel.

Aziraphale turned and held out his arms. His pale hair was flattened by descending water, water ran in rivulets over his neck and those wonderful shoulders. Crowley's mind flew back six thousand years for a moment, to an angel soaked by the first thunderstorm while keeping him, a demon and enemy, snug and dry. Always generous, always kind, always so _good_ to him personally, and Crowley, dazzled by his odd new acquaintance, had wondered what it would be like to taste the rain on his sweet fretful lips, to push his fingers into the wet hair, to hold him close and stamp a claim on him. Wondered, and suspected the consequence would be to never see him smile and speak to him again. An unbearable thought, even then.

Now there was nothing to stop Crowley flying home to those thick, strong arms, to feel them come welcomingly, possessively around him. Aziraphale's wet lips found his, Crowley was pulled close and wanted and loved and desired, and it was so real, so concrete that he felt he could hardly survive it and was on the verge of crying again. Instead, he stood close, chest to chest, let the water wash him clean, and tried to touch and memorise every gorgeous part of Aziraphale's shoulders and neck and back and the delicious curves of his backside, learning them with hungry hands.

"What do you want, my love?" he asked tenderly at last, letting a hand down and around a wonderful hip to wrap around an even more wonderful erection, already imagining it in his mouth and throat. Or he could stand here and kiss and kiss until Aziraphale came in his hand, just like this. Aziraphale was already moaning audibly and making little pushing thrusts into his grasp. The sounds were melting him every time, to feel and hear his angel overcome by his touch. Or... Crowley's brain was dazzled with options, and he could do them all in time, they were _married_ and the world wasn't ending and his Aziraphale was his to love and please. It was all a bit overwhelming really. "Anything you want."

"You mentioned," Aziraphale managed through gasps, "Oh _darling_\--you mentioned--that feels so wonderful." He clung tightly around Crowley's neck.

"This, then?" Crowley kissed his neck and shoulders, increasing the slide of his fist.

"You mentioned f-fucking your husband. I should--I should like that," Aziraphale said, managing to sound demure through the noises he was making. Crowley was enchanted, peppering his mouth with delighted kisses.

"Come on." Crowley managed to stop himself kissing his angel and release him, despite a complaining whimper almost destroying him. He turned off the water, clasped Aziraphale's hand and pulled him out of the shower, because if they were doing this then Aziraphale deserved a soft bed and pillows. On future occasions drying Aziraphale with big fluffy towels then massaging him with lotion and dusting him with satiny powder was definitely on the agenda, but it would seem cruel to indulge in that right now, with Aziraphale so visibly wanting.

Oh, who cared, a miracle to dry off was less embarrassing than a cleanup. Let Hell snigger over the accounts, what did he care for them? Crowley gestured and they were dry, or at least dry enough where.

He pulled Aziraphale toward the bedroom he had been sleeping in. "I hate to ask, but have you done this before, angel?" He sat Aziraphale carefully on the bed and knelt in front of him.

"I don't take advantage of humans if that's what you mean--er, sorry, that was tactless."

"'S alright, I'm a demon, taking advantage is what I do, but--yeah, not for a while. Not since--" Well, if he was confessing, he might as well go the whole hog and humiliate himself completely. "Since you offered to buy me bloody oysters and I had some hope for the first time. I am definitely having pearls on my ring." He hid his face on a velvet thigh to hide his flaming face.

"Oh, Crowley. No wonder you--"

"I will _bite_ you if you say it." He raked his sharpened teeth over a dimpled thigh, and Aziraphale hissed as if he was the snake.

"Is that supposed to stop me or encourage me?"

"Bastard. I am a terrible lovesick demon with nothing better to do than pine over an angel and write bloody poetry."

"You are a beautiful, perfect demon and I have spent six thousand years wondering if your form was deliberately picked to tempt me and please can we get on with it?"

"Only if you tell me more about how tempting I am." Crowley turned his face, starting to kiss along the hollow of Aziraphale's inner thigh.

"You are the most alluring creature I ever saw and your feet are exquisite and your _calves_ Crowley, I didn't know if I was relieved or heartbroken when bare legs went out of fashion and I couldn't see the hem of your clothes flap against your skirt--" That was interesting, Crowley thought dimly, gently biting sensitive skin, they both seemed to have a thing about each other's legs-- "and the way your laugh lines look when you smile, and your graceful arms and your eyes and your snaky hips and your white neck and oh Crowley _please_," he said as Crowley ran a tongue along the crease of thigh and hip. "You must know how lovely you are to me."

"I like hearing it." He nipped again, catching soft flesh between his pointed teeth, consciously not biting down quite enough to break skin, and Aziraphale's cock _jumped_ in response, his angel understanding perfectly the restraint he was showing. "I suppose you're right about me. _Superbia_ is my sin." Aziraphale's thighs were far apart, straining to give him access. His angel was so desirable, so unfathomably beautiful like this, naked and straining and exposed, that it was difficult to sound nonchalant, breath hitching on the words, hard again already.

"I love you, angel." Only two days since he had said it aloud to him for the first time and heard it in return, or was it three? Crowley felt like he had lived an eternity in a few days, as if the centuries before had been a fever dream. "I love you, love you."

Aziraphale gasped as if the words were almost too much to bear, twitching and splattering a few precious drops on his own belly. Crowley wouldn't be a demon if he could resist that, he decided, letting his tongue, fully forked, flicker out to taste and smell and take it into him.

"Oh, Crowley, _dearest_."

Aziraphale was clearly the better tempter of the two, no way he could use that breathless yearning tone of voice if not. He couldn't resist, at least not for a moment, taking the very head of Aziraphale's cock into his mouth, hard and soft and wet and pulsing, pushing back silken skin with his tongue. He swallowed down as he had promised before, until he felt Aziraphale nudge against his throat, until his face was buried against sweaty skin and hair, tongue working, hand coming up to cradle balls that were hard and high enough to flash a warning to the small part of Crowley's brain that was still working. Pulling away made Crowley want to cry out with desperation and loss, and Aziraphale was _whining_, and it was the most enticing sound ever.

"Patience, angel. Let me love you, I've waited so long. Love me too, love me _always_."

"Always, my Crowley." A blessing, a benediction he was unworthy of, but he was twice damned if he wouldn't take it.

He plunged his face lower, tongue swiping, feathering, and Aziraphale cried out with shock. "That's it, yes, darling, relax, bear down, open for me." He kissed Aziraphale there, lips clumsy and loving, but tongue clever, pressing deep, teasing open.

"I love you. My dear, my beloved... oh, oh God."

For a moment Crowley panicked. Nothing bad happened. There was the ring of gold still on his finger, a sign it was all right, Aziraphale wouldn't be smitten by Her if she heard, She had blessed Crowley's love and He had approved Aziraphale's lust and it would be all right somehow. Crowley's face was buried in Aziraphale's body at last and he loved and wanted and could no longer tell the two apart. He didn't give a damn who sniggered at the miracle, he needed his finger oiled and slippery to massage the delicate skin between entrance and balls, to encourage the tight muscles to relax. Crowley knew must look ridiculous, mouth wide as he groped blindly with a long demonic tongue for the bundle of nerves that would make Aziraphale shake, long sharp nose buried in him.

Aziraphale was sobbing his name now and clutching his hair and didn't seem inclined to criticise.

Crowley pulled his face away reluctantly, replaced his tongue with another oiled finger, and another scissored and teased and coaxed the muscled into relaxation, circling a thumb on his perinaeum, aware of his own saliva wet on his face and too caught up in delicate heat to care. "Is thisss all right, angel? How does it feel?"

"It burns a bit," Aziraphale said breathlessly, and God he was beautiful, suffused with colour, dripping, opened, eyes sparkling with tears. "It's good, don't stop."

Crowley pulled his fingers out anyway, kissed his stomach soothingly. "I hope you are paying attention to what I'm doing and taking notes."

Aziraphale blinked, coming down a bit, which was what Crowley wanted. "Will there be a test?"

"Oh _yesss,_ one day soon," Crowley breathed, "a practical exam where you demonstrate on me what you've learned. But I believe you wanted me to fuck you first." Oh bless, he thought as Aziraphale spasmed in response, he was supposed to be helping his angel come down, not working him up more. His tongue always went faster than his brain, and now that was a thought. "All right, go slow, love, calm down."

"As if you can talk," Aziraphale managed with asperity, and Crowley's laughter barked out.

"Bitchy even now?" He could feel his own expression, sappy and lovestruck, and see the way Aziraphale melted in response, the glow of that radiant face making Crowley even more distracted by adoration in some kind of viciously sweet circle. He kissed Aziraphale's damp hairline, blushing. "Come on, on the bed properly, my love."

"How do you want me?" Aziraphale asked innocently enough. Crowley had to close his eyes to take a second to come down himself. He would _not_ dash straight off the starting line this time.

He wriggled onto the bed, on his side, and encouraged Aziraphale to lie spooned in his arms, letting his hands stray over the curves and shallows of chest and sternum and stomach, kissing his shoulders--oh, Aziraphale's shoulders, how he loved them--and rubbing himself lightly against his angel's perfect backside. This would work, this would let him cradle and be careful. Not go too fast or hard. He slid a lean thigh under and around Aziraphale's, another between his angel's thicker thighs, lifting carefully, giving access and relishing the weight bearing down on him.

He reluctantly released one arm to lubricate and position himself, nudging at the entrance.

"Love," he said, his voice catching and desperate, "do you know what I need you to--"

"I do _read_, dear, I do have some idea what to do," Aziraphale said with remarkable crispness in the circumstances, and bore down and back on him and oh _existence_ Crowley was inside, choking on his own breath, trying not to thrust too hard and deep all at once as heat and pressure engulfed the head of his cock. In his head this had felt like he would be claiming his lover; instead he felt like he was the one being taken, taken inside and held and possessed. The sacredness of it hurt his demonic body, seared him, and filled him with fierce joy.

"What unangelic kind of dirty books do you read?" he heard himself say, and Aziraphale, Satan curse him, was _giggling_ through his ragged breaths.

"You have no idea how often I have imagined you inside me," Aziraphale whispered, lifting Crowley's hand to his lips.

"Oh, I _do_." Crowley couldn't tell if he thrust forward or Aziraphale rocked back, but he was deeper, Aziraphale crying out, and he was struggling to hold himself still, let his friend, his _husband_ adjust, caressing his beloved's hip and side and murmuring wordless comfort and adoration and praise, because Crowley's treacherous tongue had once again forgotten every human language he knew.

"Now," said Aziraphale, and the iron and flame in his soul was audible in his voice. "Crowley, my darling, bring yourself home."

Crowley's hips snapped forward of their own accord, and it was perfect, sheathed deep, holding his beautiful angel cradled in his arms, legs entwined, and this human-like body knew its own rhythms, knew how to rock and thrust and pull back and push again until he heard skin smack together. Aziraphale kept words somehow, but they were a stream of endearments, dearest and darling and beloved and _Crowley_, over and over murmuring _Crowley_, as if it was the most precious endearment of all.

Crowley had chosen the position to help hold himself back, to prevent himself from driving too hard in his eagerness. Perhaps it was the demon in him, prompting him to fuck harder and harder anyway, but it was all right, it was all right, Aziraphale was meeting him thrust for thrust, he shouldn't have underestimated Aziraphale's strength, his intensity. For all he was Crowley's pampered bookish queen Aziraphale was _also_ a soldier and an angel and a creature of love, burning with power, and what had he done to deserve the love of this sunlit fiery being?

Crowley was helpless to do anything but hold on and love and _fuck_ and let the wonder of it all break his soul apart as his body electrified with pleasure, fingers digging into soft flesh, hips moving frantically.

He was no longer afraid that Aziraphale would Fall under the influence of demonic desire. He was, with some part of his mind, terrified that he himself would Rise under this crashing angelic love, his ring finger burning with Her blessing. He realised through the pleasure that is was for Aziraphale's sake as well as himself that he needed not to Rise. Aziraphale _needed_ him to be his demon, tempting and spoiling and cherishing and allowing his angel to be both pleased and _good_, just as Aziraphale's angelic nature gave a demon permission to be tender and protective. Shadows and sunlight. They needed to fit into each other perfectly like this, their natures melding in one frantic adoring fuck.

Crowley found his words again. "No contracts, angel," he gasped in Aziraphale's ear, forgetting to be afraid of the Hellfire under Aziraphale's skin.

He had said it out of nowhere, in the middle of making love, but his angel understood, of course he did. "No contracts, my demon, now I can't bear it, _touch_ me," Aziraphale pleaded.

Crowley unclenched a hand from a soft hip and clasped it around Aziraphale's wet, straining cock. He had fucked his fist so often, but now it was Aziraphale driving into it, driving back on his cock, coming in desperate wet spurts as Crowley caressed and fucked him through it and then let himself go completely as well, pulsing into him as he thrust the few last times, sobbing his love out as his thighs clutched his angel close and he soaked his shoulder in tears.

After seconds, years, after he had softened and slipped out, he made himself go for a towel, dampen it with warm water, clean them both, caressing Aziraphale's beautiful stomach and creases with circling wipes and loving dabs. trying to convey _I will love you, I will look after you, let me stay with you._

Aziraphale rolled over onto his back on a fairly dry bit of bed, and pulled him close on top of him, wrapping his arms around his back and his legs around Crowley's slender hips, surrounding him with warm skin and warmer affection.

"Thank you, darling," Aziraphale said, pressing kisses on his cheek and ear and eyelids, his face still so innocent and radiant and joyful it almost hurt Crowley with its brightness. "I love you so. I will love you for eternity."

Crowley luxuriated in being cuddled, in the delicious heated pillow that was his husband. "Love you for more than eternity," he said, naturally going for the one up, and Aziraphale squeezed him chidingly and then chuckled fondly.

Crowley took Aziraphale's left hand in his own, and laid their ring fingers together. In his exhaustion-blurred, pleasure sated eyes, the gold marks and the Hellfire seemed to blend together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Hopefully now their tension has been relieved the boys can think straight (I know, I know) enough to deal with the little matter of their contracts and the Board of Light/Dark Council next chapter.
> 
> 2) And wedding planning. They may already be married, but Aziraphale isn't going to be done out of his cake. Traditional proper brandy-rich fruit cake with marzipan and proper icing, thank you very much, none of your newfangled chocolate cake with buttercream.
> 
> 3) Lyrics (Kylie, as always) from _Fever_. Give me credit for not choosing the line "So, shall I remove my clothes?" because Crowley doesn't need that kind of cruel mockery.
> 
> 4) Always a bit shy of sharing the more intimate/soppy chapters, encouragement is very welcome (if you haven't died from sugar shock).


	26. This heart that will see you through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to face the music. Or at least face the Board of Light and the Dark Council.

Aziraphale did not sleep. Still, he felt himself dozing, wrapped in the feelings of love, of exhaustion, of his body healing itself from certain strains, of...

Confidence. That was it. Every uncertainty was gone. All those countless years of worrying is it worth the danger, am I a fool, how could a demon love truly anyway, how can I risk him on an ancient _crush_?

Glorious certainty was flooding through him. Crowley, sobbing out love on his shoulder, recovering himself to care for and cherish him. _I will love you for more than eternity_. The love crashing around Aziraphale, burning and protecting all at once. He lifted his hand, and the Hellfire was beautiful and was not, he was sure, ever going to hurt him, as long as he loved a demon.

He turned, seeking cold arms, and finding an empty bed. He blinked, but the door was already opening, and there was his demon, his _husband_, gloriously naked and bearing a tray.

"Missed me?"

"If you were looking for your clothes, I think you failed."

"Don't be nasty. I made you three kinds of tea, and you don't get them until you smile and kiss me. And a Mai Tai with a little froufrou pink umbrella, and a Blue Hawaii with a blue one, but you don't get _them_ until you rehydrate. Water first. Really, angel, you stocked this place like a cross between a cocktail bar, wine storage and a bottle shop."

Aziraphale gratefully accepted iced water with a kiss, and then choose first flush Darjeeling. "Are you trying to prove how much you can dote on me?"

Crowley snarled a little. "Catch Dagon making cocktails the way you like them. Let alone Sandalphon."

"You are the _best_ husband," Aziraphale said warmly, and Crowley put the tray on the bedside table and snuggled up against his side and stole sips, only from whichever cup or glass Aziraphale happened to be using.

"We can't put this off forever," Crowley said at last, swirling his finger in the Blue Hawaiian and licking it off. "We've still decided not to sign?"

"Absolutely," Aziraphale said with certainty.

Crowley's face crinkled with relief, and he kissed Aziraphale's fingertips. "So, we make our case. What do you think would happen if we summoned both the Board and the Council at once?"

Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed him, long and soft and gentle, trying to kiss away both their fear. This. This felt right. And wrong, too, he supposed, thinking of the hellfire in his finger. A little sizzle of wrongness adding extra sweetness to all the rightness.

Crowley seemed to have caught his thoughts and leaned his cheek possessively against his. "If you are burned because of me..."

"I won't be. Fool yourself as you will, beloved, but She has the ultimate choice, and even what He does is ultimately part of Her plan."

"Go on, lecture me," Crowley grumped, without moving his face away.

"You bear Her token. No, don't swear, how easy do you think this is on me? But we'll be all right. We just have to have a little talk with the Powers that Be." He thought a bit. "On neutral ground." He stroked Crowley's cheek. "I will fight for you, my dear. Never doubt that."

"Just so long as you never doubt I will fight for you."

Aziraphale turned his head and kissed him again. "You always rescue me, my dear."

* * *

"Fear not, Angel Aziraphale and Demon Crowley, we are here to hear your petition for marriage and judge your fates," the Metatron said, his voice amplified many times over.

The Leviathan smiled with multiple lips and fangs. "Or rather, fear. Fear rather a lot," she said.

Aziraphale stood, side-by-side with Crowley, in one of the great dim rooms of Limbo. On one side, drowned in light, sat the Metatron on a great throne, flanked by shining seats on either side of him as the seven other Archangels of the Board of Light waited in judgement. On the other, the Leviathan sat in a matching throne, darkness and thunder hovering over her head, while tarnished silver thrones seated her ranks of seven Demon Princes. Beneath them, Aziraphale felt small, soft and...

...annoyed. Really, very annoyed indeed. All he and Crowley wanted was an acknowledgement of their marriage, and the Powers that Be were making such a _scene_ of it. Aziraphale could be fussy, but that didn't mean he didn't detest fusses.

"Right," he said, his voice surprisingly clear in the endless room. "So, as you can see, Crowley and I are married, our respective bosses have agreed, we've done the courtesy of informing you, and I think we're done here. Shall we go, _my husband_?"

Crowley draped both arms over his shoulders, linking them loosely and possessively on his chest. Aziraphale could feel the admiring grin against his hair but, also, the slight tremble in his arm. Poor dear, It must be hard on him, Aziraphale thought protectively. The last time he had seen the ruling Angels lined up like this would have been when they decreed his Fall, even though the Board members had changed a bit since then, and naturally, the ruling Princes of Hell lined up were always going to be somewhat unpleasant. And odiferous.

Some of the demons had really been letting themselves go since Falling, Aziraphale thought, with a censorious look at the Leviathan. Really, seven was a quite unjustifiable number of heads for one being, no one in Heaven had worn that many since the creation of the Earth, and she looked to be on the point of dissolving into seawater at any moment. Thank heavens--hell--probably _Earth_ that Crowley took more interest in standards.

"I don't think we're done," said the Metatron. "There's the little matter of the conditions of your marriage. We can't overlook the fact that the Almighty seems to have reclaimed the demon as one of Hers, for ineffable reasons of her own." He looked pointedly at Crowley's left hand, where the gold glimmered.

On the demon side, Verrier shifted in her seat, starling wings rustling. "As Prince of Demonic Principalities, I would like to point out that we, too, have a claim on the angel. He seems to have willingly accepted our Lord's mark."

Beelzebub glared at her, flies cascading outwards in warning. "My team has first claim. Underduke Dagon already received a request from his husband for assignment to our domain."

"Aziraphale is a valued member of my team," Gabriel said, offended, "and the demon Crowley can not sign away an angelic soul like that."

"Hey, don't leave me out," said a demon prince Aziraphale didn't recognise. He was more handsomely dressed than most of them, a gold velvet cloak covering his plump form, his face genial and kind, chestnut hair glittering with diamonds. "He'd fit into my team better than any of yours. Howdy, Aziraphale, I'm Ouillet. My speciality is tempting humans to break vows of poverty. From reading Dagon's reports, you'd fit _right_ in with my folk."

"Isn't anyone going to quarrel over who gets to keep Crowley?" Raphael asked.

There was a silence, and then the Leviathan shrugged. "Moving on..."

"You don't have to be bloody insulting, Your Highness," muttered Crowley.

Aziraphale reached up and patted his hand comfortingly. "_I_ want you," he whispered reassuringly.

"Thanks." Crowley seemed at least a little cheered up.

"My team will take Crowley, when he undoubtedly chooses to Rise," Sandalphon said stiffly.

Beelzebub laughed. "What on Earth makes you think the serpent will rise? Why would you want him anyway? _We_ barely want him after that fuss at--about--well. You know."

Sandalphon said, unwillingly, "I have been witness to the good effect the angel Aziraphale has _somehow_ managed to have on him. Crowley has displayed remarkable patience, kindness and sympathy in dealing with utterly _monstrous_ demands. He would be an asset to our team." He paused. "Aziraphale, however, might benefit from some extended time of meditation and reflection on the virtues of modesty, self-abnegation, and endurance."

"Is being whipped really a virtue?" asked Raphael in bright, interested tones.

"If we're going to be much longer, then I want to be comfortable," Aziraphale said firmly. He waved a hand and a comfortable, overstuffed couch appeared, with a tea table in front of it. Crowley, growling approval, pulled him backwards to sit on it, looping one long leg possessively over Aziraphale's thighs, and began to pour the tea.

"See what I mean?" Sandalphon asked the room.

"Can I have a cup?" asked Raphael. "I think I was nearly getting the hang of it."

"Perhaps it was the wrong type for the time of day," muttered Sandalphon.

Aziraphale waved a hand, and a cup materialised in front of Raphael. "Miracled tea is not _quite_ the same as properly grown, withered and brewed tea, but I've done my best," he said apologetically. "Still, this is the nicest keemun red tea I can materialise and should give you some energy."

"Oh, it smells like orchids." She took a sip, and her face screwed up. "Um... delicious. I'm sure. When I get used to it."

"May I?" Sandalphon asked.

Aziraphale waved a cup towards him. "Of course, dear. Anyone else? No? Then let's move on."

Crowley sipped from his own fragrant cup. "Look, we're really not here to debate. As far as we're concerned, our marriage is finalised, acknowledged by our bosses, and consummated--"

"Oh, please spare me," Gabriel shuddered.

"--and not at issue. We're here to make sure you know this and don't harass us, to make sure you all realise _neither_ of us is changing sides, and to confirm the lack of barriers to angelic and demonic marriage." Aziraphale was proud of how laid-back Crowley's drawl was and how cold his smile was, especially considering he could feel his demon trembling slightly. He stroked his leg comfortingly.

"There have never been any barriers to demonic marriage," grumbled Asmodeus. "We get married to humans _all the time_. It's you lot who Fall when you get married."

"I appear to be an angel still," Aziraphale said, keeping his tone cool and resisting the urge to look nervously at his ring. Crowley's slim leg, comfortingly solid and real over his lap, Crowley's body leaning into his, the delicious warmth of the teacup in his hands. He mentally clung to those things for reassurance. And Crowley's face earlier in the night, transformed with tenderness and desire and _love._ Aziraphale reminded himself that he was a creature of love, and as such was on firm ground, because if Crowley didn't love him then the whole idea of love was a joke. "Please remember that our heavenly Father has given Her blessing, and the Dark Lord has given His approval. As neither of Them has chosen to attend, They are clearly trusting us to obey Their choice."

"When have They ever agreed on anything?" demanded the Leviathan.

"Perhaps we should ask Their voices," said Aziraphale.

The Leviathan and the Metatron exchanged a look, or in the Leviathan's case seven looks, across the room. Aziraphale was gambling, but--he was almost sure he and Crowley were right. While the Almighty was always _there_, he could sense Her, She had not given a direct order since before the Flood, and Satan had only emerged from his chambers to give His orders regarding the Antichrist. They had thought He would appear in the Airbase but even then, it had only been Adam Young's Earthly father. As far as the hosts of Heaven and Hell were concerned, they were on their own, trying to interpret their Masters' wills.

The rings on their fingers must have been the most direct signs of favour or anger shown in millennia. The rulers of Heaven and Hell must be _terrified._

"There is precedent," said the Metatron slowly, "for a demon's spouse to remain in Heaven."

"Yes! My bloody wife!" snarled a demon leaping to his feet, long brown hair swirling around his piercingly beautiful face. "And you won't let me see her! Why should _he_ get his angel when bloody Uriel there swept Tamara away to Heaven?"

"Was I supposed to let her be trapped in Hell for all eternity? She died pure!" Uriel rose to her own feet.

"Only because Sandalphon fucking smote her on our wedding night!"

"To save her soul," Sandalphon said coldly.

"Now, now, we all did a lot more smiting in those days," Gabriel said pacifically. "No need to hold grudges."

Aziraphale put down his cup, somewhat regretfully pushed Crowley's leg off his lap, and stood. "Rosier, I think?" His voice was quiet, but he projected every ounce of angelic power he had behind it.

"What? Ah--yes. Yes, I am."

"Nice to meet you. I have been hoping to meet you for quite some time, ever since I read your story. I am sorry for what was done to you, Rosier. You truly love Tamara, don't you?" Aziraphale turned back to the Board of Light. "It's a mistake to think demons are incapable of love. They are our siblings. And it is on the basis of love that I claim Crowley, and it seems the Almighty recognises his love and has blessed him."

"And on what basis does the demon Crowley claim you?" The Metatron leaned forward.

"Um. Er. Lust. Ngk." Crowley turned bright red.

"I approve," said Asmodeus immediately. Ah, Prince of Lust.

"Yeah, _you_ would," sighed Beelzebub. "It seems our Lord has, as well. Disgusting. I mean, _Crowley._ Seriously."

"I have great legs, even you should admit that, my Prince," Crowley said defensively. "Go all the way up to my arse."

"Don't most human-shaped legs?"

"Yeah, but my arse is better. Don't you think so, angel?" he appealed to Aziraphale.

"I think poor Rosier here has the right to claim Tamara as well, if she chooses him, without her losing her place in Heaven," Aziraphale said steadily. "They could visit here, in Limbo." He looked directly at Sandalphon. "I request amnesty for all liaisons between Heaven and Hell, in the name of love, lust and... cooperation."

"What do you care for Rosier?" sneered the archangel Raguel, speaking for the first time, his beautiful golden face cold. Aziraphale had no intention of admitting it, but he secretly shared Crowley's conviction that Raguel was a bit of a bastard, and had worried over involving him. Angel of Justice--well. When it came down to it, Aziraphale preferred Mercy to Justice. On that thought, he unconsciously turned to Michael, Prince of Mercy.

To his astonishment, she was smiling at him, very slightly and with her usual reserve, but with something like pride, her eyes loving and kind. And her hand--her hand rested on the arm of Raphael's throne, very close to the other archangel. _Michael._ Aziraphale felt a rush of love towards her, and a rush of strength in his own heart.

"What other guide have I had?" he asked, simply. "Rosier, you thought your love for Tamara would make you Rise, but it didn't. In retrospect, you probably shouldn't have started by killing her fiance, but mistakes happen. And she didn't Fall. So, knowing that--do you love Tamara still?"

Rosier moved his arms, sleeves fluttering brown like a barn owl, and said, "Always." Aziraphale looked into his round avian eyes and saw, just for a moment, the yearning fire of Crowley's eyes. Angelic intensity of love. He wondered, as he had when reading _The Demon_, if he had known him before he Fell. There had been a time, while he researched, that he had suspected the fallen angel was Crowley, and he felt guilt over the intensity of jealousy he had felt for Tamara. He had even thought it would be worth being trapped in Heaven away from Crowley, to be sure of his love.

He had been so stupid.

"What did Uriel say to you? _She is redeemed; she loved and sorrowed, and Heaven is open wide for Love,_" Aziraphale quoted, and Uriel nodded. "Compassionate, isn't it, the mercy of Heaven? I need have no fear for my own fate. But what fate was pronounced on this poor boy Rosier? _Alone! Alone! Through all the ages! No gleam of hope--no hope of love!_"

Crowley slithered to his feet beside Aziraphale, arms wrapping convulsively around his arm. Aziraphale rose to his full height, and let his wings emerge and spread, as Crowley clung to his arm and put his head on his shoulder. White wings, defiantly pure, curling around his demon protectively, as he tried not to take his eyes from a demon Prince crumpling into his throne. "I would tear my wings from my own back rather than let you do that to Crowley."

Raphael applauded.

"Raphael," sighed Gabriel, irritated.

She tossed her red hair. "Oh, let him have his husband. And let Rosier see Tamara as well. You _know_ we decided after all that--embarrassing mess back there--that we should try to cooperate more. Love is our strong point, we should encourage it, even in demons. Also--weddings. Weddings are great. We should all have more weddings. With cake and champagne and--you know, it's a new era. We should learn to dance. Maybe the demons can teach us." Her hand moved up to cover Michael's. "And look how _cute_ they are together. Hey, you know what? I call a witness as to the strength of Crowley and Aziraphale's love." She beamed as if presenting a treat for everyone. "The Angel of Marriage, the Principality Daniel."

There was a burst of sunlight behind them, and a cascade of what sounded like popular music of the bebop variety, although somewhat electronic.

Crowley didn't raise his head from Aziraphale's shoulder to look.

"Hi, Kylie," he said. "Did you bring Dagon?"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Tamara and her demon are from the same poem/book The Demon which Aziraphale wouldn't let Crowley read much of back in the bookshop, in which a fallen angel falls in love with a human. She is struck dead when he kisses her but is saved and taken to Heaven by an angel.
> 
> 2) Thanks for your patience, on these and the other WIPs. I've already written half the boys' wedding reception, we just need to get there. ;) Remind me never to speculate how many chapters are left, okay?
> 
> 3) Title from Come Into My World
> 
> 4) No, Daniel is not literally Kylie Minogue. I just couldn't resist.


	27. Lost in Limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daniel and Dagon to the rescue. A dinner date, while we're alliterating.

"So," snarled Crowley under his breath. "The mysterious Daniel. Which boss were you intending to call a two-dicked fish, Raphael or God?"

"What was that, snake?" Dagon asked sweetly, readjusting their corset.

"Nothing, my lord."

"I thought not. Seems this young lady was a Principality all along. Angels everywhere. We'll have to up our own presence on Earth, now it's--still around."

Kylie--Daniel--beamed at them. "So the word is out. I prefer Princess, but angel works. Sorry, but I couldn't trust you to confide in me, especially if you were looking for an angel. Hi, everyone." She bowed to the assembled thrones. "God only knows, I haven't seen some of you since the Fall. Feels like a step back in time."

"How long have you been on Earth, dear?" Aziraphale asked politely. "Since the beginning?"

"I should be so lucky."

"Long enough to go native," Uriel said disapprovingly.

Daniel shrugged slender shoulders. "Can't make me Principality of Marriage and not expect me to get interested in all the lovers."

"And marry them?" Crowley asked.

She blushed. "Well--I was assigned the body of a red blooded woman, and it was love at first sight, you know. And I wasn't actually _in_ Heaven, right? So the rules about marriage made in Heaven don't really apply."

"That's sophistry and you know it," the Metatron said, quite kindly. From what Crowley knew of the Metatron, he always did _sound_ kind. On the other hand, he was Sandalphon's brother, so he was probably a smarmy bastard underneath.

"Something had to stop me from Falling," Daniel pointed out.

"This is irrelevant," said Gabriel. "The question is whether to allow the question of marriage and intimacy for these two."

"And in general," Sandalphon said, almost as quickly as Raphael said, "For all of us."

"I don't see in these rules in the new era," Sandalphon went on. "It should be us against--" He caught himself. "We are all, in our way, doing God's will for the humans."

"The Almighty was clear about the rules when She made the Heavens," the Metatron said.

"Why don't you ask Her now?" Crowley asked, lifting his hand, the gold angel marks shining. It only coincidentally looked like he was giving the finger to Gabriel. "Seems to me the rules change all the time anyway without any direct input from Her."

"I don't need to ask Her. I am the Voice of God, and I interpret--"

"No one is asking you to question Her," Aziraphale said, softly. "Just to look at Her Will now." He touched Crowley's ring with his own ring finger, and both rings sparked blindingly. "She has chosen not to engage the War between Heaven and Hell, despite the Great Plan. She has spared her favourite children, the humans. Perhaps these rings are a sign of the need for greater cooperation between us as well." Crowley, feeling like he was going to burst with either pride or how damned turned on he was about the way Aziraphale was gently bossing everyone, slid his arm around his angel's waist and pressed closer. It was even more attractive watching him lecture the Metatron than it was seeing him dispose of customers.

"Your God had nothing to do with it," said the Leviathan through three of her heads. "Our Lord decided not to engage out of amusement and pride in the natural disobedience of His child."

"That's an interesting way to look at it," Aziraphale said, a bit snidely, as the archangels shifted resentfully. "Nonetheless, no battle was engaged, and here we are. Neither of us struck down, not then and not now. And my wings are as white as ever."

"Even though we've fucked," Crowley added helpfully.

"Daniel, are you ready to advocate for the Principality Aziraphale?" Raphael asked, ignoring him.

Daniel gave a smile so dazzling it lit up Limbo. "It's no secret that I'm on the side of marriage, even if they were sleeping with the enemy. I'm sure this is the real thing. Give me just a little more time, and I'll talk you all into it. Can't keep two hearts like these apart forever."

"Does anyone advocate for the demon Crowley?"

"I suppose that's why I'm here, even though it goes against the grain to help him," sighed Dagon. "Demonic contracts and all that. Also, Daniel here will never let up unless I agree, and I can't bear the thought of Zira pouting."

"Right." The Leviathan smiled with all seven heads. "No need to keep you two waiting around, then. We'll let you know our decision."

The room changed, and swirled, and Crowley thought he heard Daniel whisper, "I believe in you, kids," as Limbo dissolved around them, and they dropped back into the cottage living room.

* * *

"I think," Aziraphale said a bit breathlessly, "it's really going to be okay. The line of his lips firmed. "Not that I'm giving you up anyway. You're mine now. I would defy them all to keep you."

Crowley squirmed onto his lap and draped himself across him, just like he had imagined doing for centuries. Better than his imagination, the arms coming to hold the sides of his slim waist, tender and possessive all at once. As if he was not a hellish creature to be despised and distrusted and cast out, but something precious and beloved and _necessary_. "Nothing will take me from you. My brilliant, beautiful, _brave_ angel. You drank _tea_ at the _Leviathan._ Do you have any idea how sexy that was?"

Aziraphale looked innocently up at him. "I was only making sure we were comfortable."

"Do you want me to _show_ you how sexy that was?" Crowley breathed against his ear, pressing closer and rolling his hips.

"I, ah, believe I can feel." Aziraphale's breath was uneven, restless beneath him. "Crowley, come back here and kiss me properly, for goodness' sake."

"Yeah, I don't do anything for goodness' sake." Crowley drew back and grinned at him. "But I will do anything for _your_ sake. And you better be damned certain I'll kiss you whenever I get the chance. I've been waiting long enough."

"Really?" Aziraphale asked plaintively. "Because I seem to be the one waiting right now."

Crowley crushed the pout of of him with kisses, and set about showing him just how sexy his performance in Limbo had been.

* * *

Later, tangled and messy, it occurred to Aziraphale that he was hungry, and also that the kitchen was burned down and magicked food, while amusing enough to taunt people with in Limbo, wasn't the same as Michelin starred food made by a real chef. Rendered agreeable with love, Crowley didn't even pretend to grumble at driving him back to London for supper. He supposed they would be spending a lot of time in the Bentley, now, zipping back and forth between homes. Aziraphale would just have to get used to the speed. He cast a sympathetic look at Aziraphale's white-knuckled grip, but really, it was for his own good. Aziraphale without a bookshop was as unacceptable a future as Crowley without his Bentley.

Crowley had long ago decided that while tiny little places where everyone knew him was Aziraphale's speciality, an extensive knowledge of glitzy restaurants with the best wine lists, cocktail and dessert menus was an important part of his job as--adversary. Friend. Partner. _Husband._ He took Aziraphale back to Mayfair and to Hakkasan, to order dumplings and lobster, exquisite desserts and a tea menu that made those river-coloured eyes light up with joy.

"You don't have to try so hard to please me," Aziraphale said softly, sharing with him a cocoa pod that was meant for three, and probably not to be ordered for two with pineapple caramel and a jivara bomb on the side.

Crowley swirled his spoon in ginger chocolate, dipped a finger in and licked it off, offering the rest of the spoon to him. Maybe, in a few millennia, it would stop making his stomach clench when Aziraphale took food from his spoon, eyes trusting and delighted. Maybe.

"M'not trying," he said at last. No, that wasn't it. "I _like_ trying. Like making you happy. Like that I _can_." He ducked his head, trying not to hear the spaces between the words. Demons didn't make people happy, not for the sake of it. Demons especially didn't make angels happy. Angels didn't _want_ demons to make them happy.

It was a wonder, really, that demons didn't go falling head over heels for every angel that gave them the time of day. Not that any of them _did_. Except this one, who was his.

"I like making you happy, too," Aziraphale said. His face took on the dreamy expression he used when quoting something. "_Have I not found him friendless, and cold, and comfortless? Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace him? It will expiate at God's tribunal. I know my Maker sanctions what I do._"

Crowley bit his lip, embarrassed, with the demonic urge to mock--but oh, the sincerity in Aziraphale's face, the burning protective _love_ of it, how could he mock that when it was more than he had ever dreamed of? And how could he say what he meant, that he had never truly felt friendless and cold and comfortless since the first time a portly angel on a wall gave him a shy, flustered smile?

"I have the ring, don't I?" he asked, gruffly. "Can't really speak for Her, but we're fine." And he could say something, after all, and did. "I love you. I just hope _our_ tribunals say the same."

"I meant it. I don't care. I love you with all I am, I'm not giving you up. I'll go straight to _Her_ if need be. You--you are my world, my husband."

"Aziraphale," Crowley breathed, and because Fate, God, Satan, Dagon or Gabriel had it in for them or romance, the waiter arrived with a message. A card, in fact. With a rather tasteless motif of pitchforks and harps.

Aziraphale accepted it with his usual grace and kindness, while Crowley glared and tried to read Aziraphale's expression.

"Well," Aziraphale said primly, putting the card aside, and returning to his pudding. "I suppose we should be grateful that they bothered to invite us to our own wedding."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) There are, I think, 18 Kylie Minogue titles in the first part of this chapter, all but one in Daniel's dialogue. Sorry.
> 
> 2) Aziraphale is (mis)quoting Rochester to Jane, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.
> 
> 3) The votes:
> 
> Yes:
> 
> * The Metatron (confused by his brother's eagerness, but amenable to pleasing him, plus the Almighty's sign of favour)  
* Uriel (following the Metatron like a good little soldier)  
* Sandalphon  
* Michael (mother of the groom, hey!)  
* Raphael  
* Asmodeous  
* The Leviathan (because of the Hellfire ring)  
* Rosier (obviously)  
* Verrial (still hoping to get Aziraphale on board)  
* Ouillet (ditto)  
* Saraquel (who didn't have any lines, but they were there)  
* Gabriel (who is a consummate politician, can see the way the wind is blowing, and possibly is a threat to Dagon where Sandalphon is concerned if celestial marriage becomes a thing. Sorry, I ship it.)
> 
> No:
> 
> * Beelzebub (nothing against it really, but on the general principle of Crowley's team liking to piss him off)  
* Raguel (who is, as Crowley suggested, a bastard)
> 
> 3) A short installment, but--we're going back to Limbo and we're gonna get ma-a-a-aried.


	28. Infinity goes on forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quando tu Crowley, ego Aziraphale.
> 
> Quando tu Aziraphale, ego Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a short sex scene near the beginning, for those of you who prefer to skim such things.
> 
> Thank you to my dear Daemonia for betaing.

In Aziraphale's secret heart he _had_ imagined his wedding for many many centuries, although for most of the millennia he had kept his mind resolutely away from who would be on the other side of the vows. In such a long life, he had witnessed so many forms of marriage, so many wedding ceremonies. He had never imagined a _religious_ wedding because, well, he had his reasons he didn't like to think about. Aziraphale's cautious mind had carefully slipped away, even in his fantasies, from the reason for his conviction that whoever he was going to marry would not be keen on any kind of vows dedicated to the Almighty. Aziraphale wasn't going to dedicate a marriage to any gods he knew didn't exist. The ones that _did_, at least in some kind of ethereal or occult form, were equally impossible

He and Crowley had attended a wedding in Ashdod once, for--what was it? Blessings and temptations coincidentally in the same place, or a rather good wedding feast? When Crowley had figured out the ceremony involved prayers to Dagon, and also that the worshippers thought Dagon and Nanshe were an item, he had laughed so hard he had choked on his wine and Aziraphale had seriously worried he was going to discorporate. The baked fish had been excellent, though.

Aziraphale looked up from a pile of wedding planning magazines. "Did you know some people believe Dagon worship is the foundation of the Roman Catholic church?" he asked absently. "Apparently the hat thing their leaders all wear is Dagon's headdress. And the fish on people's bumper stickers."

Crowley choked on his coffee in a less dramatic way than he had thousands of years ago. Funny, to think that the current Crowley was _less_ dramatic. "No. Angel, please. _Do not tell them._ They will be unbearable." Crowley slipped to his feet, coffee mug in one hand, and circled around to lean against his back, other arm sliding naturally around his shoulder as if the small shows of affection were something they had done for centuries instead of new and precious and almost fragile. "Is this what you want? A modern human ceremony? We could do _anything_. I will fly in chefs from around the world for a wedding feast, I will rent a palace for you. But--" He poked a finger cautiously at the magazine.

"I _did_ wonder, dear, how much in these magazines is your work. Young people putting themselves in debt for a party seems more or less what you have achieved for centuries."

"Well, I did always like a good party. So do you, even if it's not the same kind." He kissed Aziraphale's ear, a flicker of what felt like a forked tongue following Crowley's lips. "And it's funny when they have to do it all again with someone else seven years later. But what do they matter? Tell me what _you_ want and we'll do it."

"I already have what I want," Aziraphale said in sudden sureness. "We are living together in _affectio maritalis_, no one has been smitten or thrown into a pit, and I'm free to love you. The rest is for _them_. To make sure we are safe, so the others can be."

"I don't know why it makes me feel like this when you speak Latin--oh, I do, really. Do you know that was the first time you approached me? And the first time you kissed me, it was a Roman kiss." Crowley twisted around in his inhuman way, so he could press kisses against Aziraphale's mouth and eyes.

"Something Roman, then," Aziraphale said, when he'd recovered his breath a little, Crowley now wound onto his lap. "And make it official for _them_."

"No audience for the vows," Crowley said suddenly. "I mean, unless you really want it. But if we have anyone, we have to have the Leviathan. I want to focus on my angel, and I can hardly focus on you with the Voice of Satan staring at us with seven heads as if she wants to eat us."

"I'm not keen on Gabriel being there, either," Aziraphale admitted. "So—let's not do it."

"You don't want a wedding?"

"I will be happy to sign a contract of marriage, witnessed by a representative of each community we belong to." The words came off his tongue readily, formally, as if he had been considering it for a long time, even though he wasn't aware of it. "And a wedding breakfast-"

"_Reception,_ what century is this anyway? No one calls it a wedding breakfast anymore, for Satan's sake."

"A wedding _breakfast_," Aziraphale repeated firmly. "I want wedding cake. A proper one."

"Of course you do." Crowley grinned and pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to his temple.

"And a feast afterwards."

"Naturally." Crowley lowered his head and nipped at his neck, and kissed it better.

Aziraphale shivered. "You are terribly distracting. But as for formal vows of marriage— let's do them now."

Crowley straightened up. "Now?"

"Now." Aziraphale smiled at him, fearlessly. "As far as I am concerned, we are already married. But if vows are needed, let's make them."

"All right," Crowley said, suddenly looking unsure. "Should--should we stand up and hold hands?"

"No, I like you here." Aziraphale wound arms firmly around his waist. "Crowley, your back is exquisite, do you even realise?" He ran the fingers of one hand up the line of Crowley's spine. "So slender and flexible and strong."

"Now you're distracting me." Crowley's eyes were flared and golden, his cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted. He was at his most beautiful, Aziraphale thought, in a rush of wonder that this strange demon had given his heart to him. Aziraphale thought of all the flowery vows he could make, all the ways he could say _I will love you forever, I will be with you forever, I will protect you and be protected by you and never let us be parted, I will take joy in you always and let you give me joy._

The words left his lips almost of their own volition, the simplest vow of all. "Quando tu Crowley, ego Aziraphale."1

"Quando tu Aziraphale, ego Crowley." Crowley's voice was thick with tears and hissing. "It's always been that way, Aziraphale. Alwaysss. When and where you are, then and there I will be. Quando tu Aziraphale, ego Crowley—quando tu--"

"I know, darling. I know. My _husband._ I love you, I will never leave you." And Aziraphale thought, rocking him gently in his lap, that this was the wedding he needed. Alone, Crowley free to be soft and vulnerable and cry in his arms, him free to kiss and caress and soothe and, then, show how well he had already learned the language of loving touches and strokes.

And then, finally, to have Crowley still on his lap, encasing Aziraphale's heat in the velvet tightness of him as he rocked harder and closer, his precious demon all scrunched up eyes, rolling perspiration and keening hisses, dripping with excitement onto Aziraphale's stomach. Fucking himself on Aziraphale's cock with desperate abandon, as if each drive to the roots of them both could break the boundaries between them.

"I love you, I love you," whispered Aziraphale, in something like awe and worship. "I am your _husband_." Crowley came untouched at that, sobbing as he jerked and spurted, and Aziraphale took control, hands on fine-boned hips and his own hips thrusting up as he pulled his beloved down on him, and up again, helping him ride through it, fucking him through his own climax.

He held Crowley very close afterwards, uncaring of the come that would have to be cleaned up later, of the crumpled state of his clothes and the uncomfortable bony weight of the demon now he had fallen apart in his arms.

"That," Crowley said eventually, "was one hell of a wedding. Anything else seems redundant."

"But I still want cake," Aziraphale pouted and was kissed, which was what he was angling for anyway.

Eventually, a thought struck him. "Do you think that is what the young man at Tristan's party meant?"

"Wh-what?" Crowley stared at him with dazed eyes. "What young man?"

"The young man who said he wanted to sit on me like an armchair."

"He—what—I'm going to track him down and _kill_ him. He knew we were married!"

"You're supposed to approve of adultery."

"In the _abstract._ Not when it comes to _my_ husband." Crowley bit his ear, not hard, but possessively.

"Besides, we weren't married yet."

"Weren't we?" Crowley asked softly, and suddenly Aziraphale wasn't quite sure.

* * *

Then there were formalities. In the end, they decided on robes for the witnessed contracting, wings out and barefoot, as some kind of symbol of-regret? Honouring?--times past. Aziraphale found, a little to his surprise, that he had no regrets. Six thousand years was a long time, but their history was not as worthless as to wish it away. Without that history, the world might have ended.

As long as they wed in the required time and in Limbo and with all required guests, Heaven and Hell were surprisingly amenable to the bridal couple making their own arrangements. They agreed on the contracting happening in private before the public celebration-_breakfast_, Aziraphale said pointedly -- as long as appropriate witnesses of their spheres, who could testify to their marriage, were chosen.

"And I represent Heaven," Daniel said firmly. "Weddings are my job."

Which left Hell and Earth. Crowley went and sulked in the Bentley for almost ten minutes when Azirapahle specified the witnesses, then had to admit he didn't have a single better idea. He wasn't much for forming friendships either with other demons or with humans.

"I witness that the only time they both seemed happy was when they were committed to marrying and that they truly adore each other," Daniel said, glowing with soft light.

"I witness that I was completely unable to get anywhere with Aziraphale and that it was disgustingly clear that Crowley is head over heels for him and he feels the same," Tristan said cheerfully. "Although, my dear, if you ever see sense and decide to kick the demon out--"

"That won't be necessary," Aziraphale said hurriedly, yanking on Crowley's waist before he could mess everything up by attacking a witness mid-ceremony.

They all turned to the third member.

"Look, if you think I'm going to stand here saying soppy things about true love, and that snake, then you have another think coming." Dagon crossed their arms over their breasts and glared at them.

"Dagon, you agreed," Daniel said sternly.

"_Please_," said Aziraphale, in his softest, most pleading tones.

"Oh--oh, fuck it. Crowley dotes on him in the most disgusting way, anyone can see that, and for some reason Aziraphale likes it. They are clearly married. That do?"

"Perfectly," said Aziraphale happily, and they signed. It was not, he reflected, the most romantic of marriage contracting, but they had already had their real vows, and in some strange way, it was _them_.

* * *

There are few demons who would refuse the chance to party, especially with unlimited champagne. The wedding breakfast was well on the way by the time the angels turned up in a flurry of white wings, dazzling light and perfectly laundered suits.

"Drinkies time!" announced Raphael, who instead of a suit was wearing a rather taking green dress with her cleavage even lower than Lilith's demonic gown.

"No," said Sandalphon firmly. "We are angels, setting an example to demons. No corrupting of our celestial bodies by imbibing alcohol."

Raphael turned to him, horrified into speechlessness, clutching Michael's hand for support.

"is that an order?" asked Daniel, a little resentfully. "There's a champagne _fountain_."

"It's an _expectation_," Sandalphon said, which was clearly absolute, especially with Gabriel and the Metatron nodding approvingly.

Aziraphale had no intention of avoiding getting smashed at his own wedding. He ended up in a corner with Dagon, who plied him with champagne and relished the pained and angry looks from other angels coming their way.

"Look how miserable they all are," Dagon said dreamily. "Haven't had so much fun at any wedding without the bride being put to death. Sandy does know how to torment an angel. I really do think I'm in love." The two of them watched Raphael encouraging Belphegor to tempt her to some champagne without any other angel seeing. "Better watch out, if Crowley's mummy catches Raph breaking ranks she'll be sleeping on the couch, or whatever angels do at night."

"Well, I don't think Crowley _really_ thinks of Michael as his mother these days," Aziraphale said vaguely, staring at his husband circling the cake stand as if hunting down the perfect slice to bring to him. "You're the closest thing he has to a parent in Hell." If any thoughts were going through his head other than that he hadn't seen Crowley in a sharp suit like that since the twentieth century, they were merely that Dagon was the one who told Crowley what to do and punished him if he messed up.

Messed up. Oh, no. Dagon was grinning through two rows of teeth.

"Do you think Michael would be interested in co-parenting the snake? She's a bit straight-laced, but if being married to Raphael came with the deal..."

"I'll tell Sssandalphon," Crowley hissed, returning clutching a plate of cake.

"I'll cut off your credit cardsss," Dagon hissed back mockingly, stealing the cake and throwing the whole slice in their maw.

"Oh, no. That was Aziraphale's cake. You're suffering for that, my lord."

"As if you--oh, no. Aziraphale, don't look at me like that. I'll get you more cake, just--cheer your blessed husband up, serpent!"

"That was the best slice of cake left," Crowley said solemnly. "The best ratio of fruit to cake, the highest concentration of brandy, the smoothest icing, the creamiest marzipan, the most perfect iced roses. I picked it very carefully."

"They're all the same." Aziraphale made a soft noise in objection, and Dagon gave him a nervous look. "There's absolutely no difference."

"There is. And _he_ can tell."

Aziraphale looked at Dagon with round, hurt yet angelically forgiving eyes, and they threw up their hands in disgust. "I'll find you a much better slice than that serpent ever could. Wait and see. Just--just stop looking at me like that!"

Crowley happily took their place, sliding an arm around Aziraphale. "Maybe you _should_ have taken the Boss up on His offer. Give you a millennium, and you'd have every demon in Hell wrapped around that plump little finger."

"Dagon's really very sweet."

"Dagon is _not_—well, they seem in a better mood than usual. Nell rubbing off on them, I suppose. They were feeding her _cats_. Or maybe you are, you kind, gentle, loving darling. No wonder Dagon wants to make you happy, you precious, beautiful--"

"Maybe it's true love," Aziraphale said, reflecting that Crowley was awfully soppy when allowed to be, and should probably be discouraged a bit. It was a dead heat between whether Gabriel or Hastur looked more uncomfortable. He also neglected to mention that Dagon had just suggested hooking up with Michael and Raphael instead of Sandalphon. "In any case, you keep telling me that Hell isn't really full of fundamentally bad people. It's all right to have friends who aren't me, you know."

"_Dagon is not my friend._ Dagon only pays attention to me to poke me with a pointed stick."

"Maybe that's how fish show affection to snakes," Aziraphale said vaguely, wondering if Dagon was ever going to choose his cake. The demon seemed distracted by the champagne fountain, which was understandable, but the traditional wedding cake was _important_. Aziraphale was beginning to feel a bit fretful.

"Right. I have my mobile phone right here--"

"You brought your _phone_ to our _wedding_\--"

"--and coverage is crap in Limbo, but I defy you to find even one example of fish poking a snake with a pointed stick to show affection." Crowley waved the phone in his face.

"It might be just spending more time with humans. Dagon seems to like it up here this century." Aziraphale pointedly ignored the phone. "Oh—oh dear."

Dagon waved their hands, their dress vanished, and as they dived into the champagne pool their tail and—clampers—manifested again.

"That's it for champagne," Crowley muttered. "I'm never watching _The Little Mermaid_ again."

"Well, at least the concubi are having fun," Aziraphale said kindly, as there was a general rush of sex demons towards the fountain. "So nice to see our guests enjoying themselves. And look how red-faced Sandalphon is. They are such an adorable couple."

"They are _not_. And—oh, don't turn that look on me. I'll take care of the cake." Crowley kissed his cheek and went back, chasing away Limbo shades who were already piling up plates for the other guests.

Aziraphale, finding like many brides and grooms he was unexpectedly at a loss at his own wedding, wandered away. He passed Gabriel on his way, overheard a wistful "Just think, all anyone would need to do is accidentally bless the champagne," and decided not to say hello.

He found a seat and watched the crowds. He was dimly aware that there was really no one there he would have invited himself, except perhaps Dagon--and Sandalphon, who seemed so fond of dear Crowley lately. Still. There was cake, and Crowley, and the ring blazing on his finger, and the unexpected and rather lovely sight of demons and angels socialising, however awkwardly. The new order.

Raphael, as if hearing his thoughts, drifted across, hiding her pre-Dagon glass of champagne behind a plate of piled-up cake. Perhaps he would have invited her and her young lady as well.

"Do humans _like_ this kind of food?" Raphael asked dubiously.

"Some do," Aziraphale said, a little defensively. "Some prefer buttercream horrors that are actually made from vegetable oil to prevent melting, and are not suited for weddings at all."

"Maybe my taste buds just aren't working properly yet. I'm going to practice." She magicked a chair over and sat down, her back to everyone but Aziraphale, coincidentally hiding her glass from everyone but him. "The booze tastes good."

"How's Michael?" Aziraphale asked politely.

Raphael jerked her head over to where Michael was standing with Beelzebub, who had turned up for the occasion in full lava-red beautiful naked youth form and was buzzing like a swarm.

"He was always a bit of a disappointment, even as a fledgeling," Michael was sighing.

"Tell me about it. I could zzzwear he wazz still a cambion."

"It's astounding how well Heaven and Hell unite in insulting me," Crowley said a little bitterly. "Maybe we can avoid all future wars by having snake trashing sessions. Here, let Dagon try to steal all of _this_ in one go." He perched on the arm of Aziraphale's chair, peeled off a layer of icing, and started to hand feed bits to him. "There, my sweet angel, it's as sweet as you," he cooed, apparently deciding he could be as shameless as he wanted at his own wedding.

"Oooh, is that how you're supposed to eat it?" asked Raphael.

"I wouldn't eat it at all," Crowley said, gesturing to the guests miserably picking at their slices. "No one really likes wedding cake. Except you, darling, of course." He popped a bit in Aziraphale's mouth and watched avidly as he chewed and swallowed. "It's got a lot of booze in it, at least. Not enough to get sozzled, though."

"They can have their feast later on," Aziraphale said, and kissed him with a mouth still tasting of spices and candied peel, royal icing and brandy.

"Well, I can see you two are busy," Raphael said awkwardly and fled to find less embarrassing conversational partners. Like any of the other demons.

1 Ancient Roman vow of marriage, only traditionally using the name Gaius for the groom and Gaia for the bride. The implication of the vow is when and where you are Gaius, then and there I will be Gaia.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Hey, you darling people who are sticking with me through this monster. Sorry I have been slower than usual responding to comments, but I want you to know your comments have been read several times by the time I manage to respond. I really appreciate the support and positivity you give me--you bring me so much happiness.
> 
> 2) The wedding didn't turn out the way I planned it in my head, but standing up with complicated vows in front of angels and demons was just something I couldn't make feel right when I wrote it. Whispered vows and then bonking did. XD 
> 
> Terribly redundant title is from _Golden_.


	29. We were meant to be as one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two parties, one in Limbo and one on Earth.
> 
> A happy ending and new start for an angel and a demon.
> 
> Thank you for coming along with me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we are finally here at the happy ending. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy the final chapter.
> 
> Title from Kylie's (of course) "Love at First Sight."
> 
> _I didn't know just what to do,  
Then there was you.  
And everything went from wrong to right  
And the stars came out and filled up the sky  
...it was love at first sight._
> 
> Thank you to Daemonia for beta reading this chapter, and my Wattpad fam for your constant encouragement and support. Love you guys more than you will ever know.

Crowley detested weddings. Fortunately, he didn't get invited to many, especially as any religious content risked setting him on fire.

There were things that amused him about contemporary weddings: the sheer egotism and selfishness of a bride manically set on My Special Day, bitterness and family quarrels and keeping up with The Joneses, drunkenness and bad decisions, fights about religion or lack thereof, and so much opportunity for participants to either sin and sin hard, or set themselves up with filthy tempers that would leak evil like an oil spill for weeks or, with any luck, years. The sound of a weepy "And she _knew_ we were already planning our wedding, and she stole _all my attention_" was music to his not actually pointed ears.

You could keep all that celebration of love stuff, though.

Unless it was _his_ wedding and a metaphorical finger in the air to all the hosts of Heaven and Hell that had been in the way of claiming his angel, a big "Haha, he loves me and you can't stop him" at them all.

He hadn't figured in what Heaven and Hell were actually like, and one of the worst features of weddings.

Speeches.

There were seven Princes of Hell, all eager for their moment of glory. There were seven Archangels, all determined not to be outshone or outspoken. And apparently, Daniel and Dagon had elected themselves wedding planners and EmCees, which meant that a wedding obsessed angel and the Master of Torments were milking it for all it was worth. Every time Crowley struggled to suppress a yawn, he saw Dagon glimmering toothily at him. Bitch.

It had been fun for a while watching angels discover how really, really nice it was to corrupt their bodies with mortal food containing a lot of sugar, but it wore off fast. None of them enjoyed it in the same way Aziraphale did.

He wondered if anyone would notice if he dragged Aziraphale off to make out instead. Probably. But after all, wasn't it _his_ Special Day?

"And while we are striving towards a positive future, working together in the service of the Ineffable Plan, our minions have shown us the example by extending hands across the Earth, to work together to determine humanity's future and guide them with a loving but _firm_ hand--" Gabriel had been going on for a good thirty minutes, and this was his first pause, to look approvingly at Sandalphon, seated by Crowley's side at the reception table.

Crowley remembered some things Aziraphale had mentioned about Sandalphon being a bit heavy on the smiting and a favourite of Gabriel and felt a little worry under his heady mixture of ecstasy and boredom. Sodom and Gommorah were a long time ago, but if Heaven and Hell were getting all snuggly together against the humans, then--well, some things didn't bear thinking about. Some things shouldn't be allowed to happen again.

Crowley waited until Gabriel had resumed his speech, then leaned over to whisper in Sandalphon's ear. He might as well have _some_ fun at his own wedding breakfast, and possibly achieve something for the humans as well.

"I think the reason Gabriel is so happy about all this is that he's going to use it as an excuse to get under your robes."

Sandalphon looked at him, wide-eyed. "That's ridiculous." The corners of his mouth twitched.

"From what I've heard, he really enjoys it when you do smiting. I mean, no judgement. Gets lonely in Heaven, and Aziraphale's really not your type, I think you know that now. Aziraphale needs someone to dote on and serve him. He's an angel." Crowley leaned back and looked speculatively at Sandalphon. "If you want any tips on doting on an angel, I'm your boy-shaped being. Got to serve an important angel like Gabriel properly, and he doesn't seem the doting type himself."

"Hmmph." The smile had faded.

"Look, I know we didn't get along well at first, but I'll tell you this in thanks for supporting us. A demon lucky enough to be wanted by the angel of their heart would do _anything_ for them. The problem is cluelessness. I mean, I wouldn't suggest dating one of the ones who spend their time with maggots and toads and things. But a sophisticated, worldly, sexy demon, who you know is willing to spoil and flatter an angel, and is really into you..." Crowley let his gaze slide meaningfully to where Dagon was presiding in the emcee chair and laughing with Daniel, teeth flashing and blue eyes shining. "I mean, it would be great for both sides. Think how much convenience there would be in splitting the paperwork. And some demons have... interesting talents."

"Don't tempt me, demon."

Crowley shrugged. "Tempting is our _job_. And it's not all bad. Ask Aziraphale." He popped a strawberry into his mouth.

Sandalphon rested a thoughtful chin on his fingertips, and Crowley felt a stab of glee. There, he had fulfilled his contract with Dagon, _and_ put a spoke in Gabriel's wheel.

He turned back to catch Aziraphale's reproachful pout.

"Crowley."

"You're the one who said they make a cute couple," he whispered.

"I suppose I did. But..."

"Relax, darling. It's a good deed and a wicked one all at once. Perfect for our wedding." Crowley broke off some angel's food cake from his plate with his fingers and lifted it to Aziraphale's lips. Aziraphale clasped his wrist as he accepted it, holding his gaze steadily as he chewed and swallowed.

"Scrumptious," Aziraphale whispered in a room in which even fewer demons were paying attention to Gabriel than a moment before. He pulled some powdered sugar off Crowley's fingers with his lips, and one of the succubi squealed aloud in admiration.

Gabriel, startled, broke off, and Asmodeus said into the sudden silence, "Metatron, old man, you really must let us borrow him to give some workshops."

Aziraphale didn't take his eyes off Crowley. "I'm not sure I will have time."

"Bollocks to that," Crowley said cheerfully to the room at large, without breaking his gaze. "His tempting abilities are _mine_ and he will be busy for at least the next six thousand years. Well, guys, it's been real, but all the good food is gone, and I'd better get _my_ husband home before he's drunk enough to be incapacitated. Feel free to carry on with the speeches without us."

Aziraphale twinkled at him, climbed to his feet, and extended his arm. "Thank you all for a _lovely_ celebration. Coming, my dear?"

Crowley took his arm and stood up, winking at the company. "Ciao, guys." He gave them a friendly wave, and the two of them turned their backs on Heaven and Hell.

Aziraphale leaned his head on Crowley's shoulder, their arms tightly around each other, all the way along the travellator to the door to the world. _Their_ world.

* * *

Nell was exactly the kind of Sabbath School Satanist Crowley found profoundly embarrassing. She had apparently recovered from her experiences of possession with human resilience and was rewriting her memories of the experience in the most positive way possible.

"And I'm thinking of putting in a pool for when Lord Dagon comes to visit," she said happily. "They've promised to drop in for a cup of tea and to see the cats every now and then."

Oh, wonderful. Crowley had agreed they could live half in London and half in the pink "cottage", seeing that he could do a lot of his work online these days. Still, he hadn't factored the regular risk of running into his line manager into the equation. He resolved to always check with Nell before allowing Aziraphale to drop over.

She had dragged Crowley out of the Christmas party to proudly show him her collection of demonology manuscripts and Satanic artefacts. Crowley suspected Aziraphale would appreciate the manuscripts more than he did, and he tried very hard not to look at the artefacts, especially those including preserved human body parts.

Humans. Whatever would they think of next?

"What did you _get_ out of it all?" Crowley asked, curiously.

Nell smiled at him. "Apart from the honour of hosting Lord Dagon? Let's just say taxes and perhaps certification for some items of dubious authenticity for my shop are never going to be a problem again. Let's go back and find your angel husband, Master Crowley. I mean, Anthony."

As simple as that? Well, Crowley supposed, he was aware of the lengths Aziraphale would go to to avoid paperwork. He did do his taxes, at least.

He supposed Tristan had his prayers answered, quite literally, as well. The smug handsome prat was currently holding forth to Aziraphale about his new position as first violin in a very famous symphony orchestra. Of course, Sandalphon _was_ the Angel of Music as well as of Prayer.

Crowley went and wound a possessive arm around Aziraphale's waist, pulling him close and glaring at Tristan over his glasses.

"Hello, Anthony, dear," Tristan said, smiling at him with just as much poisonous hostility as he had shown while sharing a body with Sandalphon. "I was just about to suggest a wonderful party game. Christmas Carol Picture Relay. We form small groups, and one member of each group pulls the name of a carol out of a hat, and draws pictures until their group guess it. Then the whole group has to sing the carol before any other group finishes theirs."

"Oh, that sounds such fun!" Aziraphale clapped his hands. Crowley wondered just how many times the eggnog next to his elbow had been refilled.

"No. I'd rather die. In fact, I _might_ die," Crowley lied quickly. All those religious songs in one room, like being trapped in a cathedral." Aziraphale was looking suspiciously at him, and Crowley moved around beside him and rested his chin on his shoulder to minimise the risk of being exposed to puppy-dog eyes or pouts.

"I'm so sorry, Anthony, that was tactless. I forgot your, ah, persuasion," said Tristan, who was clearly also a natural liar. Crowley clamped down on the urge to like him. "Well, there's always Christmas movie trivia."

"Oh, I don't think Crowley would like that."

"You're on."

"Crowley?"

"You're on," he repeated. "Prepare for a humiliating defeat."

"Darling, are you sure?"

Tristan and Crowley exchanged the smiles of men preparing to battle to the death, and Tristan left to organise the game.

Aziraphale sighed, settling back in Crowley's arms. "Can't save a demon from falling, I suppose."

"What's that supposed to mean? You do realise this is the first Christmas I haven't spent alone, hiding from carols and goodwill? I must have memorised every Christmas film in existence."

"including _White Christmas_?"

"Oh. Oh... _Heaven._" Crowley became aware of his husband shaking softly with suppressed laughter in his arms. "Don't laugh too hard, my love. You are going to be on my team, and we are _not_ going to lose, even if I have to freeze time and use my phone."

"Oh, no. No cheating. You're playing with an angel." Aziraphale managed to wriggle around somehow until they were face to face, but only dropped a chaste kiss on his nose. "Besides, does it count if you cheat?"

"Yes," Crowley said, and Aziraphale chuckled.

* * *

Nell drew the final card. "All right, it's down to the tiebreaker." Tristan and Crowley glared at each other across the room. "According to the 2002 film _The Santa Clause 2_, how many days does Santa have to find a wife?"

"Twenty-eight!" Crowley yelled, punching the air in victory. It was an unfortunate choice. One of his arms was wrapped around Aziraphale, so the hand he punched with had a half-full glass of spiced wine. The contents miraculously arced around in the air to land on the young man who had talked about sitting on Aziraphale. "Who's the king of Christmas films?"

"Yes, dear, very clever, you're the king of Christmas films," sighed Aziraphale. "A worthwhile achievement to crown your long life of hard work. Don't worry, Nigel, I think you'll find it miraculously rinses out with just a little soda water. And _I_ think my husband has had quite enough excitement for tonight and needs to go to bed."

"But I was just starting to have fun!"

"Oh, you can still have fun," Aziraphale hissed in his ear. "Just without further ruining your image in this village. And alone."

Crowley stated at him with drunk, tearful eyes. At least, he hoped Aziraphale could tell they were tearful under his glasses. "You're sending me to bed _alone_. On Christmas."

"Oh, for the Lord's sake."

"Don't bring Her into it." Crowley thought for a minute. "Either of Her."

"You're not going alone," Aziraphale hissed.

"Oh." Crowley brightened.

"Come on, Anthony." Aziraphale hauled him up by the hand, ignoring the smirks and giggles, and towed him up the stairs of Nell's house to their room.

Aziraphale came to a stop halfway up, and Crowley bumped into him. At least he was soft to bump into. Crowley giddily wrapped his arms around him. "Forgot the way, angel?"

"No. It's just," Aziraphale said, flushing as he gestured upwards. "Mistletoe."

Crowley made a sudden effort and sobered up. He wanted to be sober for this, so he could remember it properly. "You know, angel," he said gently, looking into that beloved face, "when all this started, I planned to work up to perhaps, just perhaps, after you got used to the idea of us together, kissing you under the mistletoe at this party."

"You planned to wait a whole month to kiss me for the first time?" Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow. "Congratulations on executing your plan to schedule and not rushing anything."

Aziraphale lifted his left hand to Crowley's cheek, and Crowley knew he was looking at the simple gold band, one black pearl set in it, hiding the hellfire ring from mortal eyes. Crowley mirrored him, cupping Aziraphale's face in a hand on which a platinum ring set with a white pearl hid his golden marks.

"I have to admit that, when I asked you to pose as my husband, I daydreamed that maybe we would get close enough that we could kiss under the mistletoe. Just one kiss, I didn't think it was safe to have more. But I could have kept that memory to my heart always."

"Aziraphale." Crowley lifted his head and kissed Aziraphale's eyelids tenderly, then his lips, long and deep and sweet. "Let's go home, my angel."

"'But Nell--"

Crowley kissed him, longer and deeper, tasting the sweetness of eggnog and mulled wine and chocolates and most of all Aziraphale. "Home," he breathed against Aziraphale's lips. "We can come back to breakfast if you like."

"Nell will be disappointed," Aziraphale said primly. "I rather think she banked on telling her devil-worshipping friends that a demon desecrated an angel in her house."

"I don't desecrate you, angel. I adore you. Come home." Crowley drew back and smiled a little. "My head is full of cheesy Christmas movies. I want to walk home with you, hand and hand in the snow."

"Won't the Bentley feel rejected? And there's no snow, just sleet."

"In the miraculous blanket of pure powdery snow that just fell instantaneously," Crowley said firmly. "And I love you more than I love the Bentley."

"Whatever did I do to deserve that?" Aziraphale gave a happy wriggle that made Crowley's heart stutter.

"_Everything._ And then I want to fall asleep in your arms by the fire in our own home. That would be..." Heaven, he wanted to say, but nothing like the reality of Heaven, cold and judgemental, the home he had fled from and which Aziraphale avoided. A human concept of heaven. Warmth and love.

Whatever had a sinning creature of Hell done to deserve this? if he hadn't been terrified of being saved and rising, Crowley would have lifted his voice in praise and gratitude.

"Home," Aziraphale said and kissed him. "It's not like I can deny you anything--I spoil you to death. Love makes me soft."

"You. Spoil. Me." Crowley grinned at him. "Well, I suppose you do at that. Come on, angel. Let's go home."

To their personal heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU for reading this nonsense. I love you all so much. I cherish each comment, and I will catch up soon!
> 
> Best fandom ever.
> 
> I'd say this is the last time I wrote an epic, but this wasn't actually supposed to be one, and one of the reasons I am posting more slolwy than usual is that I'm working on a Big Bang fic. meanwhile, I decided to do Advent Calendar fics, and I still have the piratical and book!canon works in progress, and I'm working on a couple of gift fics, so--I guess I'm in this fandom for the long haul.
> 
> I hope you will keep supporting me. So much love to you all, the kindest and most supportive fandom I have ever belonged to.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and support are joy to me. <3
> 
> This story uses series characterisation, supporting cast, cold opening and time period. Otherwise, it canonically follows the book in that rather than all the business with extinction and body swapping, Heaven and Hell just kind of forgot about the whole Armageddon deal, or at least decided not to mention it because it was too embarrassing. So Crowley and Aziraphale are still on their respective payrolls.


End file.
